


Between Time

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Case Fic, Existential Crisis, Gen, Human Anatomy, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Work In Progress, descriptions of a crime scene and dead body
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson would be the first to admit that he wasn’t having the best day of his life.  He waved to the barmaid and ordered another lager. Yes, damn it. John Watson was having an extremely bad day.<br/>He didn’t know that it was about to get a lot worse.</p><p>-----</p><p>After a week of increasingly stressful situations, John Watson decides for once to drink to forget. But will he get more of that than he bargained for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Saturday_

John Watson would be the first to admit that he wasn’t having the best day of his life. He thought about that sentence a few times, sitting alone at the bar finishing his fourth pint while the people in the pub around him chatted, laughed and enjoyed themselves. He waved to the barmaid and ordered another lager. Yes, damn it. John Watson was having an extremely bad day.

He didn’t know that it was about to get a lot worse.

oOo

_The previous Wednesday in 221B_

“You don’t need the job.” Dressing-gown billowing, Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa with an air of finality, obviously considering the matter settled, and turned to face the wall.

“Hell yes I do!” protested John, stopping his pacing in the living room to look at Sherlock. “Have you seen our bills lately? Not to mention the fact that we have to take a cab everywhere because you’re too bloody impatient to use the tube. Do you even realise what they are charging these days? Dammit Sherlock, I’m talking to you!”

Sherlock twisted his upper body until he could look at John, elegant eyebrow raised  as if saying, “… and?”

John took a deep breath to calm down. “Sherlock, look. I know things like bills and food and rent are beneath you. I know that every now and again we get spectacularly well paid for solving a case. But we don’t have what you could call a steady cash flow. We need a bit of money, and you know that we can barely make ends meet with my Army pension and however much you chip in. I’m going to have to take that job.”

Sherlock turned to face the wall again. “You don’t need to worry about money, John. My own finances are more secure than you realise, and there really is no need for you to work. If you’d like, I will take over your share of the rent, that should make you more comfortable.”

John just stared at Sherlock’s dressing-gown clad back. “What?”, he finally managed.

“I would think that that would be a satisfactory arrangement. Or would you prefer it if I were to be financially responsible for the groceries? After all, you are the one who actually does the shopping, that would make it an equal share, would it not?”

John felt a  pricking sensation in his hands and realised that he was clenching his fists tightly enough to push his fingernails into his palms. He was past anger and into a cold fury the likes of which he hadn’t felt since Afghanistan, when he had found out that a shipment of essential medical supplies had not been delivered due to the supply officer’s incompetence, and John had been forced to amputate a man’s leg when he could have saved it.

“Just so I understand you correctly, Sherlock. Have you just offered…” he swallowed, but his voice stayed even, icily calm. “Have you just offered to pay me support? To give me money, in exchange for - what exactly? What do I have to do to earn my keep?”

Sherlock sat up in one fluid motion, studying John with interest. “You don’t like this.” It was a statement, not a question.

John barked a laugh. “Damn right I don’t like it. I do the shopping, yes, because you can’t be arsed. I cook because we can’t get take-away or eat in a fancy restaurant every night and at least one of us has to eat on a regular basis. I clean the kitchen so I know your experiments from my food, and the bathroom because I can’t stand a dirty one, not since I studied medicine. I don’t care about your room, Sherlock, and the living room is just a mess unless Mrs Hudson takes pity and runs the duster around. I do what I do because I happen to live in this flat, Sherlock, because this is the flat we share. Do you understand? I am your flatmate. I am also your friend, dammit. I am not your, your domestic, or your butler, or heaven forbid your housekeeper.” He had just barely avoided saying wife; that was a can of worms he’d not like to see opened. He took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help, and Sherlock was still looking at him as if he were an interesting growth on a slide under a microscope.

“So don’t you dare, Sherlock, don’t you fucking dare to pay for my share of the rent, or my food, or my clothes, or anything else that strikes your fancy. I am not your kept man. I am a doctor, I studied bloody hard to become a doctor, and I want to work as a doctor. Do you get that?”

To John’s satisfaction, Sherlock was finally looking taken aback. “But, John…” he managed before John decided he’d had enough. “You know what? Forget it. This is not open to discussion.” He grabbed his black jacket and headed for the door. “I’m going out. Might be late”, he shouted from the stairwell, slamming the door shut with a little more force than strictly necessary.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Saturday_

There was Karaoke going on in a side room, and every time the door opened, the sound of increasingly drunk men singing their way through the Beatles’ greatest hits floated through the pub. For a moment, John considered joining them. He wondered idly whether he was drunk enough to do it and not care how his voice sounded. Probably not, he thought. He shook his head wearily and took another sip of his ale. The glass was almost empty again, how had that happened? He waved at the barmaid and ordered another.

 

oOo

_The previous Thursday_

“A street cleaner found the bag”, Lestrade told Sherlock and John when they arrived at the crime scene, ducking under the blue and white police tape. “Thought someone had been fly tipping. The bag ripped when he tried to lift it, and well… See for yourselves.” Lestrade cleared his throat and waved a hand towards where the Forensics team were clustered. “And you definitely want to wear gloves for this one”, he told them as they walked closer.

 

At first, the only thing John could see past Sherlock was a large black bin bag lying on the ground underneath the footbridge, but once Sherlock had crouched down to take a closer look at the victim, John was able to make out more. The bin bag had torn open to reveal a naked man, skin pale and waxy from loss of blood, deep cuts all over his body. The head was not visible, still covered by the black plastic. John frowned as he watched Sherlock pull out his magnifier and move around the body. There was something eerily familiar about the way the body had been cut, and John leaned in for a closer look.

“Anything?” he heard Lestrade ask, and Sherlock looked up.

“Oh, a few ideas. John?”

John was startled out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”

“Your opinion?” Sherlock asked impatiently. John sighed, looking questioningly at Lestrade, who simply shrugged. John crouched down beside Sherlock, focussing on the body in front of them, examining it quickly. “Time of death is hard to tell, but I don’t think he’s been dead for more than six hours. Wasn’t killed here, there’s no blood, and with cuts like these there would have been a lot.” He leaned in and carefully touched the cut on the victim’s arm, breathing out in surprise as the skin came away from the muscle underneath. Suddenly, everything made sense, but he’d have to look further to confirm his suspicion.

 

John’s hands moved above the body in familiar patterns. “The skin’s been cut very carefully”, he said, “just to under the subcutaneous tissue, and then inside to remove it from the muscle…” He looked over the man’s abdomen. “There is a cut here too, see it? From the sternum down to the pubis…” John reached out to open that cut, and groaned at what he saw. “Oh god…” He swallowed. The internal organs had been cut loose one by one from the surrounding tissue, removed, cleaned, and put back in again, as if this man had been an anatomical model.

“What kind of sick fuck are we dealing with here”, Lestrade said, disgust and anger clear in his voice and on his face.

John, still crouched at the dead man’s side, moved to close the body cavity. “Someone who knows how to dissect a body”, he answered. “A medical man, probably a surgeon. You learn how to operate by dissecting corpses.” He looked over at Sherlock, who was studying the body with fascination. Probably thinking how to recreate this in the morgue, John thought. He looked back at the dead body, glancing down the legs - cut in the same way the arms were, skin flaps loose over the muscles - and up to the genitalia, when something made him hesitate.

“Sherlock, can I have your magnifying glass for a moment?”

Wordlessly, Sherlock passed the magnifier over to him, eying John with the same fascination that he’d previously had for the victim. John felt a fleeting pang of annoyance, but dismissed that feeling as he looked through the magnifying glass at the scar just to the right of the dead man’s groin.

 

John knew that scar. He was the one who’d put it there, cutting the trousers off the young soldier bleeding into the sand, getting the bullet out and stitching up the wound, thanking his lucky stars that the femoral artery hadn’t been nicked or the man would’ve bled out long before he’d reached him, while right next to them soldiers were firing, buying him time enough to finish his work.

John came back to the present with a shudder. He stood up and reached for the edge of the black bag still covering the man’s face, pulling it up. He had to be certain.

A pale young face was revealed underneath the plastic, reddish hair cut military-short, freckles running a path over his nose. It would have been handsome, were it not for the rictus of pain that distorted his features, much like it had that day in Afghanistan. John nodded, let the plastic drop down again and stood up with a sigh, turning towards Lestrade.

“This is Private Gavin Walsh… no, probably Lance Corporal now, knowing him… ” He swallowed convulsively. Suddenly, he had to get away from the scene, away from the worried looks of Lestrade and Sherlock on him. “Excuse me for a moment”, he said, holding himself up straight by sheer force of will, turning and walking out from underneath the bridge, along the footpath and towards a group of trees. Behind him, he heard Sherlock say something about Bart’s morgue and tissue samples, but his mind was not even remotely on the case.

 

John leaned forward against one of the trees, right arm thrown across his eyes, left hand clenched into a tight fist by his side, breathing deeply, trying to get himself back under control. Despite the cool autumn air and the smells of the city, his mind was filled with the stench of blood and gunpowder, and he felt sick.

After a few moments, he heard Sherlock’s footsteps coming towards him. “John?” Sherlock asked, his voice soft with worry. “Are you alright?”

He felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder and trembled involuntarily. Sherlock gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before dropping his hand again. John turned around and leaned back against the tree, looking into the distance and into the past.

“There was a fire-fight in an abandoned settlement”, John said, his voice steady but remote. “Gav was in the advance group and was hit by a ricochet. He was in a lot of pain, but joked when I cleaned the wound, said just a little bit further left and he’d be of no more use to his girlfriend.” John swallowed. “Oh god, someone’s got to find the girlfriend and tell her…”

“Don’t worry about that, John. The police will handle it”, Sherlock said quietly, no trace of impatience in his voice.

“Yeah, I suppose they will.” He sighed. “I saved his life in Afghanistan, Sherlock, and now he’s lying there, dead, cut up like a cadaver in med school.” John looked up bleakly at Sherlock. “He would have died in battle, instead he’s become a murder victim. What’s the use of me saving his life, of saving any life, if they just die anyway?”

Sherlock reached out hesitantly to touch John, but he had no answer to this, no way of consoling his friend. “John…” he started, but did not know how to finish the sentence.

John looked away and shook his head. “It’s ok, Sherlock. I’ll be alright. You just… Go back to the case, find the bastard who did this. I’ll…” He took a deep breath to stop himself shaking, or worse. He felt like he might throw up at any moment. “I think I’ll just take a walk.” He nodded stiffly, then drew himself up from where he had been leaning against the tree. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from Sherlock, from the crime scene, from Gavin, and started walking, not knowing where but needing the distance and time to think.

 

That night, John didn’t get much sleep, and what sleep he had was shot through with nightmares. He was visited again by all the men and women he had saved, and those he hadn’t been able to save, all lying in a morgue, dissected, their dead eyes full of accusations.

He really hadn’t expected anything else.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Saturday_

As John finished yet another glass, he knew he was getting stinking drunk. He usually had no more than a pint or two in the company of Mike Stamford, Greg Lestrade or his mates from the army. He knew his limits. When he drank alone and for personal reasons, he made sure to drink way above that limit, accepting the resulting two-day hangover as both penance and insurance. After all, alcoholism was running in his family, and he did not want to court the danger of becoming the second Watson sibling to succumb to that particular vice.

But sometimes, very, very rarely, John wanted to drown his life in a glass, wanted to feel terribly sick for two days, wanted to put distance between himself and what was happening.

 

oOo

_The previous Friday_

They were in the lab at Bart’s when John received the phone call.

Sherlock was leaning over the microscope, analysing various tissue samples taken from Gavin’s dead body. John was re-reading the autopsy report, which was confirming his initial assessment. The cadaver had been very carefully dissected.

John reminded himself again to think of the victim as precisely that, a cadaver, not Gavin his fellow soldier and patient, but it wasn’t that easy. Of course John had met death before, as a doctor, a soldier, as Sherlock’s assistant. For some reason however he couldn’t shake the growing sense of unease in this case.

“John, you have seen the body. What would you say was the cause of death?” Sherlock didn’t look up from the microscope as he asked. John turned to the autopsy report once more. “Apart form being cut open, you mean?” he muttered under his breath. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

“Right. Apart from the obvious, there are no outward signs of violence. No blunt trauma to the head, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds that aren’t consistent with the dissections. I assume you found some kind of poison?”

Sherlock hummed again, then sighed. Looking up from the microscope and focussing on John, he said, “I found traces of phenobarbital and pancuronium. No poison or other substance that could have killed him. I am sorry, John.”

John frowned. “A sedative and a muscle relaxant...” Then he realised the implications of what Sherlock had said, and he recoiled in horror and disgust. “Are you…” His voice came out with a croak, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “Are you trying to tell me that Gav wasn’t dead before he was cut open? That this was a vivisection?”

Sherlock had the decency to look apologetic as he nodded. “I’m afraid it’s the only explanation for the amount of these specific drugs in the tissue samples. There would have been more in the bloodstream, and that might have killed him, but since there was very little blood to make certain…”

“Stop it, Sherlock”, John interrupted. “Just…” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Christ. He was alive. Did you find any kind of analgesic, something that would have spared him the pain?” he asked hopefully.

Sherlock hesitated just long enough for John to understand. “No, there wasn’t, was there”, he answered his own question. Shuddering, John closed his eyes. There was a fear every doctor shared, a fear that their patient, even though anaesthetised, was aware and feeling everything, unable to move or to cry for help. To do this on purpose was unthinkable, yet someone had done precisely that, and done it to kill.

“So he would probably have bled out”, John continued, his voice surprisingly steady. “Either that, or he could have suffocated when his diaphragm was paralysed…”

The ring of John’s telephone interrupted him, and he was grateful for the interruption.

“Hello?… Yes, speaking. What?… Of course. I’ll be there.” He cut the connection with a sigh. Apparently, it was his week for getting out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Sherlock, that was the police.” Sherlock raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Harry’s been in a fight, she’s been arrested. And since I’m next of kin, I’ve got to bail her out. Look, I’ve got to go, will you be alright here?”

Sherlock nodded, but John was already throwing on his jacket and walking through the door.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Saturday_

“Are you sure you don’t have enough?” the barmaid asked when John ordered another ale. John smiled at her slightly lopsidedly. He knew that even drunk, he had a friendly, non-threatening manner, and he played the harmless drunk card for all he was worth.

“Don’t worry, Miss, I’m a Doctor. I know how much I can handle.” The barmaid looked at him for a moment, assessing him, then shrugged. “Suit yourself”, she said, and reached for the fiver he had put on the bar, then pulled on the tap and handed him a full glass. “Have one for yourself, ok?” John said when she tried to give him his change. She smiled and drew herself a coke.

oOo

_The previous Friday_

The police station was a surprisingly friendly and efficient place. John produced his credit card with a heavy heart and was told to get a coffee while he waited. The time wasted made him annoyed at his sister, and his annoyance grew when Harry was brought out. She was a mess from her dishevelled ginger hair down to her broken-heeled shoes. The skin around one eye was swollen and already turning to a vivid shade of purple, there were bruises on her face and on her hands and her stained clothes were torn. She was holding one of her arms awkwardly, walking towards John with a slight limp which was not only due to her broken shoes. She was very obviously drunk. Again.

“Oh God John thank you I’m so glad you’re here…” she was gushing with a wide smile as she drew near, trying to envelop him in a hug.

“Yeah alright Harry,” John interrupted, “don’t make a scene.” He sighed, exasperated, wanting nothing more than to get out of there. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He put his hand on his sister’s back, steering her out of the police station and towards the nearby taxi stand. During the taxi ride, John was silent as Harry tried to explain in a slurred voice peppered with expletives, barely pausing for breath.

“Bastards said they had to downsize, so they offered me a part-time job, reduced fucking salary, but that’s bullshit, firm’s doing well, I should know, so I told them, I said, that’s bullshit and you know it, I’m _not_ going to let you cut my job in half, next thing I know I have a bloody _cheque_ for bloody _severance pay_ and I’m out on the street, just like that, can you imagine? The bastards didn’t cut the other jobs, I know they didn’t, it’s just me they didn’t want, so I went with Rosie to this pub she knows so’s I could ask her, you know? And Rosie says it’s because I have too many sick days and was not performing well. Bugger that, I’m the best they got. Then Rosie had to get back after lunch and I was just looking for some company, so I went to this other pub, you know the one, and there was this cute girl, she was really nice and friendly and comforting and we had a few drinks and then her _girlfriend_ turns up and oh I don’t know, I might have said something I shouldn’t have…” Harry trailed off and raised her bruised hand to her face. “Had a damn good left hook, that one. Then some idiot called the police, I think it was the cute one and John are you listening?”

John hummed noncommittally, wishing for the taxi ride to be over. Harry had been off the booze for half a year, at least that was what she had told him. Sherlock probably would have been able to reveal the lie, seeing the sick days and job cut and poor performance for what it was, but John had chosen to believe what his sister told him about her life on the few occasions that they talked. But now the air inside the taxi reeked of alcohol, making him gag, and Harry’s voice was slurred and cracking in a way that John knew only too well. Something about what Harry had said made him ask, “What happened to the other woman? The girlfriend, was she arrested too?”

Harry blushed and looked away, saying with a mixture of drunken pride and embarrassment, “She’s in hospital.”

John was stunned. “Jesus, Harry, you beat someone up so much they had to be taken to hospital?” He couldn’t believe it. His sister was an alcoholic, yes, but she had never been violent. Thankfully, his outburst had silenced Harry for the moment.

Finally, they arrived at Harry’s flat. “Do you have a first aid kit somewhere?” John asked after he had helped his sister into the living room and onto a sofa. “In the bathroom”, she replied. John went to fetch it, doing his best to ignore the mess and the empty bottles in his sister’s flat and the frankly disgusting state of her bathroom. More evidence that Harry hadn’t been as sober as she’d said.

After he unearthed the first aid kit from the closet beneath the sink, John went into the kitchen, grabbing a clean tea towel and a bowl of warm water. He deposited everything on the living room table and sat down on the sofa next to a sprawled Harry. “Sorry I can’t do anything about that black eye”, he said, “you can probably put some ice on it to help the swelling go down faster. Will be a nice shiner, though.” Harry just grunted in acknowledgement. John shrugged and started to clean and disinfect his sister’s wounds.

“Ow, fuckit!” Harry shouted when John dabbed a disinfectant-soaked piece of cotton wool on her grazed face.

“Hold still”, John admonished. “It will just hurt more if you move while I do this. Don’t want to poke you in the eye.”

Harry kept her body still, but she started talking again in that alcohol-fuelled stream of consciousness that John tried to ignore as best he could.

“God thank you for getting me out of that police station, that cell was damn uncomfortable and there was this other guy total creep, ow! Yeah, yeah, I know. That guy was totally rude, he was, you know, _insinuating_ things, I’m telling you, if I wasn’t interested in dick in the fist place that guy would have put me right off, ow! Dammit!”

John was applying bandages as he went along, but there were still dirty and bleeding wounds. He kept working, concentrating on cleaning and dressing as he would with any other patient. Harry had run down and was silent for once, watching him. John suppressed a sigh. He knew from experience that there were two options now, given Harry’s state of inebriation. She would either become whiny and self-pitying, or she would start to needle him. He wondered idly which of those would be preferable, and if he could finish the job and get out of there before Harry got started.

“Look at you”, Harry said at length, her voice deceptively soft. “My little brother. Always taking care of me.” She sighed. “Always so perfect. My brother, the doctor. Such gentle hands.”

John felt his lips grow tight. He knew where this was going, could almost predict what Harry would say next.

“You didn’t have to leave us, you know. Join the army.”

Yes, John thought, there it was. “Harry, please. We’ve been over this many times”, he muttered, hoping against hope that Harry would leave well enough alone, but she only switched tracks.

“Are you still running around with that poncy git of yours, then? Or have you found yourself a nice girlfriend instead?”

“Yes I am, he’s not mine, and it’s none of your business”, John replied curtly.

Harry actually giggled at that. “Of course he’s yours. I read your blog, you know. He’s all over you. I know the signs. You two act like a married couple, all that’s missing is the vows. Why don’t you take him up on it, get a little action going.”

John couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t go to you for relationship advice.”

Harry turned, pulling his hand away from where he was applying the final bandages, and narrowed her eyes. “That was low, Johnny”, she growled. “Very low. Thank you for getting me out of the cell, thank you for fixing me up, but I think you’d better leave now.”

John nodded once and got up, taking the dirty water and blood-stained towel into the kitchen, then packing up the first-aid kit and putting it back into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror while he was washing his hands. He hadn’t exaggerated when he told Sherlock that he and his sister didn’t get on. Part of him wished they could, but that was not going to happen any time soon. He dried his hands on the cleanest towel he could find, then returned to the living room to pick up his jacket.

He should not have been surprised to find his sister in the kitchen with a glass of red wine in one hand, a bottle in the other, and a completely changed mood.

“Hey there brother, care to join me for a thank-you drink?” Harry grinned and took a gulp of wine. She laughed and made a few clumsy dance-steps, the wine in her glass sloshing dangerously. “I feel like a party! I’ve just got paid, and don’t have to go to work tomorrow! Come on, Johnny, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud!”

John knew it was pointless, but he couldn’t leave without at least trying to make Harry see sense. “Harry”, he started, “you put someone in hospital today. That will have consequences, you know.” Harry just shrugged. “Bitch had it coming”, she snarled, taking another mouthful of wine.

John sighed. “I really think you should stop drinking now, I think you’ve got enough for one day.”

“Guess what”, Harry sneered, “I don’t care what you think. D’you hear me? I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.” Her voice became shriller and shriller the more she got worked up. “You perfect little man with your perfect little life, you don’t even know what it was like when you were gone! You don’t know _fuck_ about me and you never cared, now shut your mouth and get the fuck out of my face!”

There was a moment’s silence, a moment when John could have turned away and left the flat, left Harry to her own devices and her bottles, but the same stubborn streak that made him stand up to Sherlock, that made him fight for a wounded soldier’s life, also made him reach out to grab the glass Harry was holding and twist it out of her hand. “You”, he said in a tight voice, “have a drinking problem, Harry. You don’t know what you’re saying. Now stop it, get out of those dirty clothes, and get yourself a coffee or something, get yourself together.” He poured what little wine remained in the glass into the sink, then took hold of the wine bottle, trying to get it away from his sister.

Harry’s face was a distorted with fury, and she clutched the bottle tightly in her hand. “Let go of my drink”, she spat. “Let go of my fucking drink!”

“Come on, Harry”, John said, still trying to reason with his drunken sister. “Leave it. Give it up.”

With a shrill cry of “Let go my _fucking_ drink!” Harry wrenched the bottle out of John’s grasp, and before he could duck or block it, swung the bottle at his head. John heard the glass shatter before he felt the impact, and he stumbled, stunned, fetching up against the refrigerator. There was red liquid dripping onto his shoulder, and it was only partly wine. He reached up to his head and winced as his hand came back sticky with blood. Still, he thought in a detached part of his mind, he was lucky – if the alcohol hadn't made Harry so uncoordinated, she could have hit him much harder.

Harry stood frozen, her hand flown to her mouth, saying, “Oh my god, oh my god, Johnny, I’m so sorry, oh my god” over and over again. John couldn’t look at her. Instead he took a slightly wobbly step to where he left the towel, using it to wipe the wine from his clothes, then grabbing a clean one to press against his head. It hurt, and he felt dizzy, but it hurt even more to know that this was it, there was no going back from this. Without another word, he left his sister crying and babbling in the kitchen, left the flat and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - this chapter was a bitch to write, and then there was the Hobbit. I hope to have the next chapter up before Christmas. :)


	5. Chapter 5

_Saturday_

All the pints he'd drunk were working themselves through his system, and John felt the need to visit the loo. He slid off his seat, took off his jacket and draped it over the barstool to save his place, and made his way into the men's room in a surprisingly straight line. He giggled. The last time he was this drunk was just after he finished his Doctorate and he and his mates had gone out to celebrate. Even then, Mike had remarked on John's ability to move without appearing drunk, something which had changed when the revellers had hit the club's dance floor. Ah, the days of youth, John thought.

When he returned to his seat and his drink, John felt the mobile in his jacket pocket vibrate. Getting it out of his pocket with clumsy fingers, still giggling, he found that he'd had a text message from Sherlock.

_"Lestrade_ _called"_ , the text read, _“need you. - SH”_

John frowned. Sherlock knew that he was out on a date, at least he had been, and he had made it clear that he didn't want to be disturbed. In his head, he composed a scathing reply, but his fine motor coordination was off, so he settled for a simple, _“NO”_.

A few minutes later, the mobile buzzed again.

_“Another corpse found, similar to Thursday. Need your expertise. - SH”_

“Jesus fuck, Sherlock”, John muttered, “can't you leave me alone for one sodding evening!” He sighed, typing very carefully.

_“I SAID NO SHERLOCK NOW LEAVE ME ALONE."_ He hit “send”, then turned the phone off and tucked it away in his jacket. He didn't feel like giggling any more as he took another gulp of ale.

 

oOo

_The previous Friday_

When John returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, something which suited John well. He didn't feel up to explaining where the wine on his clothes and the wound on his head had come from. He peeled off his clothes and chucked them into the wash, then took a shower to get the dried and sticky wine out of his hair. After towelling himself off, he checked his head in the bathroom mirror. There was a swelling where the bottle had hit him, and a small laceration that, although it had bled profusely, wasn't as deep as he'd initially thought.  
Thankful for small favours, he disinfected the wound, grimacing at the pain. He felt tired and worn out after the events of the day, and his head hurt, though he was sure he had no concussion. He grabbed a couple of Aspirin from the medicine cabinet, then went to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. Surveying the kitchen and the various experiments Sherlock was conducting on the table, he wondered whether to find out where Sherlock was, but decided that he couldn't be bothered. In fact, he thought he would simply go to bed and try to get some hopefully dreamless sleep.

 

He had just stretched out on his bed when his mobile announced an incoming text message. With a sigh, John retrieved the phone. Checking the message, he saw to his relief that it wasn't from Sherlock.

_“Hey, John! Are you free tomorrow evening? Meet me at the Rose & Crown, say sixish? Shi”_

A slow smile spread over John's face. He and Siobhan had been introduced by a friend they had in common, had hit it off immediately, and had been going out together for almost two months. Siobhan was pretty much the opposite of Sherlock – petite, with long blonde hair and a wonderful Northern Irish lilt in her voice, and though she was intelligent, in her case it translated into an wild curiosity for the arts and history and an enthusiasm to share what she knew. They had formed an easy, almost instant friendship, and on their last memorable evening together, John found out that she was an equally enthusiastic lover. Now she wanted to meet with him on Saturday evening. John's smile grew wider as he typed out a reply. _“Tomorrow around six at the Rose & Crown, I'll be there!”_ Maybe his week was finally looking up.

 

oOo

 

_Saturday_

The Karaoke chorus spilled out of the side room, still singing with the enthusiasm of the pleasantly drunk. Apparently it didn't occur to them to keep to the same key, making up with volume what they lacked in harmony. As the proprietor locked the Karaoke room behind them, they made their way through the main pub and out the doors with boisterous repetitions of "She loves you, yeah yeah yeah! She loves you, yeah yeah yeah!"  
In the relative quiet that remained in their wake, John picked through the complimentary bowl of nuts on the bar, popping a few salted peanuts into his mouth and biting down on them viciously. Still, it was better than grinding his teeth.

The barmaid looked at him, and he imagined seeing pity in her eyes. That wouldn't do, he decided, and waved at her to get a bag of crisps and another pint.

 

oOo

 

_Saturday, around six_

When John arrived at the Rose & Crown shortly before six o'clock, Siobhan was already sitting in one of the corner booths, a half-empty gin and tonic in front of her. She looked up at John as he approached and smiled.

"Hey", John said, smiling back and leaning down to give her a peck on the cheek. "Get you another?" he asked, waving at her half-empty glass.

"Sure", she replied, and John went to fetch the drinks. He elbowed his way to the bar through a gaggle of young women out on a hen night, earning some good-natured ribbing and laughter. Soon, he returned to the booth, a gin and tonic for Siobhan in one hand, a pint of lager for himself in the other, and a grin on his face.

"So", he said, slipping out of his jacket and settling down on the bench opposite Siobhan, "how've you been?"

"Oh, good. They've been keeping me busy at the office, you know how it goes", Siobhan ran a hand through her hair, tucking an errand strand behind her ear, "it's either drought or deluge. And you? Anything exciting happening?"

John thought of the past week and the dissected body. “Not much, really”, he replied, reaching for his pint. "Cheers!"

 

They clinked glasses and for a while lost themselves in friendly chat. Siobhan was telling John about her latest visit to the Victoria & Albert Museum, going off on a tangent about the Aesthetic Movement of the 19th century, and John started to relax. He didn't know much about interior design, but he loved listening to Siobhan being passionate about a subject, and sharing her passion with him, asking him for his opinion, even though they both admitted that he wasn't the expert. Here was someone he didn't have to pretend with, who didn't see him just as part of the Holmes and Watson duo. He felt at ease, and a tension he hadn't even noticed left him. For what seemed to be the first time that week, he smiled a genuine smile.

After a while though John noticed that there was something slightly off. For some reason, it seemed that Siobhan wouldn't meet his eyes while they talked. Instead, she was distractedly playing with the lemon in her drink, looking around the pub, frowning occasionally, and John knew her well enough to see that there was something amiss.

 

When their conversation petered out, John sipped his beer, thinking.

“Siobhan”, he said at last, “is everything alright? Are you OK?”

Siobhan stopped playing with the lemon and took a large sip of her gin and tonic. She sighed as she put down the glass. “Yeah. John, I … we need to talk.”

Instantly, alarm bells were going off in John's mind. _Oh no, she's pregnant_ was his first thought, but no, they had used protection. Besides, Siobhan was drinking alcohol, and she wouldn't do that if she were pregnant. What then? Not many options left. He felt his stomach muscles tighten, as if he was preparing himself for a blow.

“That night, last time we met,” Siobhan continued hesitantly, “that was... really good... but...”

John couldn't stand it any more. “But you're going to say it was a big mistake, right?”

Siobhan looked relieved and ashamed at the same time, which was no mean feat. “Not a mistake”, she inclined her head, letting her hair fall over the side of her face. “It was... fun. Great. You were great.” She looked up and John straight in the eye.

“John, you're a good friend, and I really like you... I just don't like you that way... you know?”

Yes, there it was, the punch in the gut he had been expecting. “Are you seriously giving me the 'let's just be friends' talk?” John asked incredulously.

“I don't know... Yeah, I guess I am. I'm sorry, John, I really am.” She looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else at this moment, looking for once a little helpless.

 

John nodded and sat back. He never would have slept with Siobhan if he hadn't thought she wanted it, too. And he would have been comfortable being 'friends with benefits', but apparently, Siobhan saw things differently.  
John thought ruefully that he really shouldn't be surprised that a week of rotten luck would end with a friend and potential girlfriend breaking up with him before things got even properly started. This was worse than Sarah, whose first date included Chinese gangsters, or Jeanette at the disastrous Christmas party. This time, he hadn't even needed Sherlock's help to fuck things up.

There was a thought he couldn't let go. “What did I do wrong, Siobhan?” he asked. “Why...”

“No, no, no”, she interrupted him quickly, a high note of apology in her voice. “It's not you. It's me, it's... It's hard to explain it, but really, John, it's not anything you did or didn't do. It's me. I don't think I'm … I don't want that kind of relationship right now. I just hope... Do you think we can stay friends? I hope we can stay friends...”

Siobhan trailed off, fidgeting nervously with the lemon, then taking another drink, while John sat, thinking of what to say, of how to feel about this. When he didn't speak for a few minutes, Siobhan reached out to touch his hand. “John?” she said. “Are we alright? Are _you_ alright?”

John flinched involuntarily. A week of dealing with Sherlock, with the murder, with his sister came crashing down on him, and he suddenly couldn't deal with this. With any of this. “I don't know”, he said, picking up his pint and downing the beer in one go. “Let's just call it a night, ok?”

Siobhan left her hand lying on the table for a moment, then stood up and pulled on her jacket. “I'll call you, ok?” she said. John looked up at her and saw sadness mixed with relief on her face. He nodded. Anything else would have taken too much effort.

“I really am sorry”, Siobhan said again, then turned and walked out of the pub, closely followed by the hen night party who had warmed up enough to begin their pub crawl.

 

John considered the empty pint glass in his hand, considered the week he'd had, considered briefly the consequences there would be if he did what he was about to do.

“Aah, fuck it”, he muttered, picked up his jacket and went to sit at the bar. This was, he decided, a perfect evening to get utterly wasted on.


	6. Chapter 6

_Sunday_

 

John was sitting on the barstool, elbows propped up on the bar, looking into the distance and nursing his pint. He was vaguely aware that the pub was slowly emptying, but he felt no need to head home just yet. He was in a rather pleasantly numb place where the stresses of the past week were reduced to minor irritations and he didn’t want this numbness to end. Sherlock and the case could go hang for all he cared right now and take his sister with him; and as for Siobhan, she wasn’t the first woman he’d had sex with and she certainly wouldn’t be the last, and if she wanted to be just friends, well, that was her loss.  
  
The lights in the pub flashed a few times, then settled into uncomfortable brightness that illuminated the remaining patrons, an international sign for last orders. “Time, gentlemen, please”, the gruff voice of the proprietor announced, still using the traditional phrase despite the relaxed licensing laws, and he started to collect the remaining empty glasses from the tables. Time, yes. Time to go home.  
  
John sighed and slid off the barstool, one hand on the bar to steady himself, and lifted his glass to drink off the rest of his ale. “Would you like me to order you a taxi?” the barmaid asked him, professional concern in her eyes.

“Naah, thass fine”, John slurred. “Gonn' take a walk, clear m'head a bit.” He smiled and waved in the general direction of the barmaid. “G'night!”

“Good night, get home safe”, the barmaid replied with a tired smile, then started to clean the remaining glasses.

 

John made his way to the door, briefly thinking about finding another pub that was still open. He didn’t even know what time it was, but all things considered it was probably time to stop drinking for the evening, except for a large glass of water with an aspirin or two in the hope to take off the edge of the hangover.  
  
As soon as he stepped out of the pub, the cool night air hit him like a brick. “Oooh Jesus…” he groaned, just managing to put out a hand against the wall to steady himself, eyes closed and head bowed. He took a few deep breaths against the dizzyness that swept through him. “Increased oxygen flow”, his medical knowledge supplied, “combined with a change of posture, sends more alcohol to the brain.” He groaned again. Medical facts wouldn't help him when he was feeling like he was strapped into a funfair ride. He swallowed a few times, then opened his eyes. There, that was better.

 

The Rose & Crown wasn't exactly close to Baker Street, but he was right about not wanting a taxi. The thought of being in a moving vehicle, be it a cab, bus or heaven forbid the tube, made him squeamish, and he swallowed again to keep the nausea at bay. No, he would walk until he felt a bit more like himself, and then he would probably get a cab for the rest of the way, depending on how far it was. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and he noticed the faint glow of the moon above the constant lights of the city.

John calculated quickly, Army training coming back to him without any conscious thought, then set off into a south-easterly direction. He chuckled, remembering his first Army orientation and navigation training which he had failed magnificently. “Cadet Watson!” their instructor had shouted in front of the muddy, exhausted training group that had been forced to wait for John. “Did you try to work for the other side? A blind man could better at this course!” Humiliated, John had been determined not to fail again, honing his skills until he had become something of a legend for always being able to find his way even through the desert. And he wasn't even in a desert now, but in the city he knew well, better now that he was working with Sherlock. He was sure that getting home on foot from the pub to Baker Street wouldn't present much of a challenge, even in his inebriated state.

 

At first he walked with the exaggerated carefulness of the very drunk, staying close to the buildings and taking care not to stumble over the kerbs and loose pavement stones, but he soon fell into a regular if drunkenly wobbling gait, still very close to the military gait designed to eat up long distances with minimal mental effort. He giggled when he realised this. You can take the man out of the Army, he thought, but you can't take the Army out of the man.

 

While he walked, his mind went back on his time in the RAMC, before Afghanistan, back when he had started his training at Pirbright. He'd received the usual taunts at first, mostly about his size. He had been called “the little Doctor who wants to play soldier”, but the weeks of rough training, a few even rougher games of Rugby, and John's obvious talent at the shooting range disabused his fellow recruits of this notion. After 14 weeks at Pirbright, he had earned the grudging respect and friendship of his comrades. His first deployment went well too, though no amount of training could have prepared him for the realities of war, of working on wounded soldiers and occasionally civilians while all around him was the noise and intensity of men and women fighting, of operating under less-than-ideal conditions in huts and tents and under enormous pressure.

John grinned, but it was a dark, satisfied grin. Yes, he had nightmares about Afghanistan, though those had become less and less the longer he was living at 221B. He'd had nightmares too while he was studying to be a doctor, and while he was in residency; he had always been a vivid dreamer. And despite everything, despite the bullet wound in his shoulder and the deteriorated relationship with his family, he was glad that he had made the choice to join the Army. His experiences made him who he was now, and though there had been a time when he was lost and walking with a cane when he had wished the bullet had hit him a little further to the right and down, it sometimes seemed that everything in his life so far had been leading up to this, to being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate, friend, and partner-in-solving-crime. Even if Sherlock was a colossal, infuriating berk on frequent occasions.

 

John stopped to take another few deep breaths. The nausea and dizzyness were receding, though his stomach still protested a bit at the lack of solid food to cushion the alcohol, while his bladder reminded him quite insistently just how much liquid he had drunk. John looked around and realised that while he had been reminiscing, he had actually gotten a bit lost after all, though he was sure the general direction was correct. No matter, there was no hurry. There was a small park on the other side of the street, and he could probably find some kind of map at the entrance or have another look at the sky to re-orientate himself, and there would also be a friendly tree against which he could relieve himself. Perfect.

 

The sky was overcast, but once he was in the middle of the park he could make out the faint glow of the moon behind the clouds. Yes, he had gotten turned around slightly, but once he got out of the park he would be able to find his way again. Soon he might hear the trains at St Pancras, and once he got there, it would be a doddle to get to Baker Street. No taxi necessary tonight. Good.

Next item on the agenda. Looking around he spotted a small copse of trees with some undergrowth, ideal for his use. Half-hidden behind one of the trees he unzipped, giggling as he imagined pissing on some poor sleeping squirrel – did squirrels sleep on the ground, he wondered, or in trees? He couldn't quite remember now, and he giggled again. Yes, having a few pints had been a rather good idea.

 

John was so engrossed in his relief that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching his impromptu toilet, and he was taken by surprise by the rough, taunting voices. “Oi, mate! Havin' a bit of wank, are we?” Sneering laughter followed this question, and a second voice chimed in. “That's proper dirty that is.”

 

John tucked himself away and turned around. He was faced by three men in their late teens, maybe early twenties he thought, in jeans, t-shirts and hooded sweatshirts, each holding a can of cheap lager and sniggering at him.

 

“Oi, wanker! I'm talking to you!”, the largest, brawniest of the trio said, waving his can at John who swayed in place a bit, trying to decide on the best course of action.

 

“No”, he said, opting for the truth. “Just, er, having a slash. On m'way home.” He extricated himself from the undergrowth and stepped back onto the path, putting some distance between himself and the trio.

 

“Yeah?” Brawn grinned evilly. “That right?” The man took a step forward, and his two companions moved to either side of John. Classic pincer movement, John though, adrenaline starting to flood his brain, and he moved backwards towards the park's entrance. He was getting the strong feeling that these three were looking for a fight, and he was neither in the mood nor in the shape for a brawl.

 

John nodded. “Yes, yeah, that's... that's it. So, I'll just...be on my way, alright?” He was still subtly backing away from the trio, trying to look placating and unafraid and hoping he wasn't too drunk to pull it off. And he wasn't afraid, not really – he had faced war in Afghanistan, serial killers, Chinese gangsters and Moriarty. Three drunk youths in a park were hardly the stuff of nightmares.

 

That's when he fetched up against the fourth one standing behind him, blocking his way.

 

Brawn chuckled as he saw that John was fenced in. “Yeah, mate, no problem”, he said in a mocking sing-song voice, “but first gi' us your money, right? We'll have that off of you. Phone too if you've got one.” He held out his hand, crooking his fingers as if expecting John to hand over his wallet and phone without protest.

 

John was getting annoyed despite himself. He knew he shouldn't antagonise the boys, or provoke them into doing something stupid; four against one were not the best of odds after all. But he was more than a bit drunk, more than a bit angry at the way his week had gone, and now this, being held up on his way home in a park by a gang of hoodies. For John Watson, enough was enough. This was the final straw. He settled himself into a neutral stance, ready to defend himself if necessary, and said quietly but firmly, “No.”

 

Brawn's grin got wider, almost as if he had hoped that John would refuse. He stepped closer to John, who didn't back down. “You what?”, Brawn said. “No? You're pissed, mate, just give it over and you can go, right?”

 

John looked Brawn in the eyes, trying to stare the youth down. “No”, he repeated, a little louder and more forceful this time.

 

Although his mind was sober from adrenaline, John's body was still firmly in the grip of alcohol, and even though he saw the punch coming, he could not react quickly enough to block it. Brawn's fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and making him double over and retch.

 

“How 'bout now?” Brawn pushed John upright by his shoulder, then recoiled when John started to throw up. Distantly, John knew that it was the punch to the solar plexus that made his alcohol-filled stomach rebel, but most of his mind was taken up by the fact that he had just puked all over the man who had punched him, and who now looked furious, clothes stained with vomit.

 

“Shit, man!” screamed Brawn. “You fucking wanker!” In the corner of his mind not currently looking for a way out, John mused that the quality of Brawn's curses were highly repetitive, but more important was that here was his chance. Brawn was trying to wipe the worst off his clothes, while the other two made disgusted noises and offered crumpled paper tissues. No-one seemed to mind him for a few precious seconds. He picked a direction to run in, gathered himself quickly and was about to make his move when strong hands grabbed his upper arms.

  
Damn. He had forgotten about the fourth man.  
  
John pivoted on his stronger leg and ducked forward, using his lower centre of gravity to get the man off balance, loosen his grip enough for John to get away. With a surprised shout, the youth was thrown over John's back and to the ground. There was something to be said for being below average height after all. Jumping over the prone figure more clumsily than he liked, he broke into a run towards the park's exit, while behind him Brawn bellowed, "Get the little wanking turd!"  
  
The problem with being below average height is that people whose legs are longer (and, John admitted, who were about half his age) were also faster. He did his best to outrun them, but he hadn't reached the edge of the park before someone tackled him from behind and he fell. He cursed himself for a fool as he tried to struggle free. If it hadn't been for his stubbornness he would probably have gotten away with just giving them his money. Then someone kicked him hard in the ribs and all thought fled with his breath. He could only try to avoid the worst of the beating the four men were inflicting on him, alternating punches and kicks. He curled up and raised his arms to protect his face, grunting in pain, and he felt someone roughly tearing at his jacket to pull out his wallet, phone, and keys. John opened his eyes to see if they were done with him, but instead he saw a booted foot coming towards his face. He desperately tried to roll away, but the kick connected.

  
Pain exploded behind his eyes and threw him into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

“I SAID NO SHERLOCK NOW LEAVE ME ALONE”

 

Sherlock Holmes read the message with a disgusted snort. “John's not coming”, he told Lestrade. “Obviously, he feels his date to be of more importance than the case.” He put his phone away and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves.

Lestrade looked at him, aghast. “You texted John even though you knew he's on a date? Christ, Sherlock, give the man a break! He's chasing after you all the time, he deserves a night off. So he's got a date, good for him.”

Sherlock didn't reply. He walked over to where the second body had been found, the black bin bag opened to reveal the victim, and crouched down to inspect the scene. He admitted to himself that Lestrade might have a point. Since the body of Gavin Walsh had been discovered, John had become increasingly distraught. Then there was the situation with Harry, though John had made it clear that he didn't want to discuss it with him. Furthermore, John had insisted that Sherlock not disturb him while he was out on the date, but Sherlock had been convinced that John would want to know about the second victim. He resolved to make it up to John somehow, even though the last time he had offered to help just a few days ago it had resulted in a terrible row.

Sherlock realised that he had been staring at the victim's body for some time without seeing it while he was woolgathering, and he finally focussed on what was in front of him. Fortunately, Lestrade had probably thought he was formulating theories about the crime and had not tried to disturb or press him.

 

The victim's body had been treated in the same manner as Gavin Walsh's had. It was the same precise pattern of cuts, and – Sherlock opened the body cavity carefully – the same removal, cleaning and re-insertion of the internal organs. The body was virtually bloodless, and he would judge that the victim had died between eight and twelve hours ago. He lifted and turned the victim's left arm and inspected it with his magnifier. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see the two small puncture wounds where the killer had injected the sedative and muscle relaxant. He leaned down and sniffed the victim's skin, smelling medical-grade disinfectant soap and traces of latex and cornstarch. Definitely the work of the same person. A serial killer. He nodded, straightened up and turned to Lestrade.

 

“Victim is in his early thirties, like the first one. Nothing to indicate the identity of the victim, though the tattoo on his shoulder might indicate a military background, which could be a connection. Same MO. We've got a serial killer on our hands, with access to a lab or hospital. More likely a doctor than a medical student. He certainly knows what he's doing, and he's very careful of removing all traces that could lead us to him. Brilliant. Utterly mad, obviously, but brilliant. John, can you...” He trailed off, looking over his shoulder to where John would usually be, and remembering that he wasn't, and why. He turned back just in time to see Lestrade's smirk. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. It wasn't as if he had never talked to John when the man wasn't there, but this was the first time he had done so in front of others. Lestrade would tell John, and he'd never hear the end of it.

 

“Yes, well”, Sherlock rallied. “I'll want to examine the corpse in the morgue, though I don't think there will be anything new to find.” He buried his hands in his coat pockets and started pacing. “We'll have to get this one another way. Find where he gets his supplies. As soon as you know the victim's identity let me know. As soon as you find anything at all, let me know.”

While Lestrade went to instruct his officers, Sherlock felt that the frustration of not being able to move this case forward might overwhelm his initial excitement about a truly inventive serial killer. This would usually be the point where John would stop him with a light, casual touch or a few words, restore his concentration. Sherlock frowned. He had worked on cases before John, surely he could survive one evening without him. He would be able to ask John's opinion when he got back from his date, tomorrow at the latest.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade had come back and was now looking at him with slight concern. “You seem distracted. Is this about the case?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It appears I have gotten more used to my colleague than I thought”, he said quietly so that nobody could overhear him, least of all Anderson who was now coordinating the forensic team.

There was the smirk on Lestrade's face again, but this time it was tempered with the memory of Sherlock before John. “He's your friend, Sherlock, and a good bloke”, he said. “I'm sure he'll forgive you for almost ruining his date.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Of course he will. And this case is right up his alley. Don't worry, Detective Inspector, I'm sure we'll catch this killer soon enough.”

“You'd better”, Lestrade groused. “While you're having fun cracking the case, I'm the one who has to sit in front of a horde of journalists explaining that someone is treating people like anatomical models and why we haven't stopped him yet.”

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was lying on the living room sofa, hands steepled under his chin, thinking. He had finally relented and pressed a nicotine patch to his arm to calm down and concentrate. He was going over the case once again, putting all the details they had discovered into a three-dimensional mental array and twisting it around in the hope of finding a missing piece or a link that would fit.

Materials. Generic heavy-duty bin bags. Obtainable at any supermarket. No lead there. Latex gloves with cornstarch as lubrication: surgical gloves. Victim's skin smelling of chlorhexidine, the antiseptic component in surgical scrub and hospital soaps. Conclusion: Victim was washed thoroughly before being wrapped in the bin bags, thereby removing all traces of bacteria or other materials that would make a location traceable.

Chemicals used: Phenobarbital and pancuronium. Both drugs used in hospitals, in treatment and anaesthesia. Phenobarbital was most likely first administered, probably helping to overwhelm the victim. Pancuronium pre-vivisection to suppress any struggle, since there were no bruises on the body that could have been made by restraints. How was the first dose given? Had the victim trusted the killer somehow, to allow an injection? Was the victim the killer's patient?

Incisions made by scalpel, other bruises concurrent with the use of retractors of unknown type. John would know which one was commonly used in operations. John. Everything in this case pointed to a serial killer who was either very well connected to a hospital or, something even more disturbing, working in a hospital or general practice. John would be eager to find out who was thus breaking the Hippocratic Oath.

Next, the victims. Both male, both in the same age group. At least one a soldier, previously wounded in action. No further speculation before identity of second victim clear.

John had been wounded in action too. He would feel empathy for the victims, even if he didn't know them personally. Would John fit the killer's profile? If so, they would need to proceed with extreme caution.

 

Sherlock took a mental step backwards and inspected the case construct. He breathed out in frustration. Too many empty nodes; not enough information. And quite a few nodes where John's input would be needed. He opened his eyes and looked at his mobile. It was twenty past three in the morning and John hadn't come home yet. The date went well, Sherlock concluded, and it was unlikely that John would be home before nine o'clock the next morning. There was nothing he could do on the case, nothing but wait until John got back. He might as well go to bed.

 

As soon as Sherlock had decided that, he fell asleep where he lay on the sofa.

 

oOo

 

He was lying on the grass. Harry's high-pitched voice called him. She shouted wake up, get up. He was cold. She sounded afraid. What had happened. He was lying on the grass and everything hurt. He remembered falling. Harry kept shouting at him and he was cold. He was lying on the ground and Harry was shouting. He had fallen out of a tree and everything hurt. Daddy would be furious. Harry sounded afraid. He had to get up and go home. Mommy would make the hurt go away. Make Harry stop shouting at him. Daddy had told him not to climb trees. He had climbed a tree. Peter and Mark had dared him. He climbed high on a tree. He slipped and fell. Everything hurt. It was dark. He had to get home. One more step. One more step. One more... step...

 

oOo

 

He struggled to wake up, brightness flashing by overhead even behind his closed eyelids. There were loud voices speaking gibberish. He was sure that if he concentrated just a little bit, he would be able to understand them, but his head hurt too much. He still felt cold, but he didn't hurt that much any more, and for that he was thankful. He breathed in carefully. Familiar smells. Antiseptic, blood, bandages. The voices sounded tense but professional. He was in a hospital, then. Good. They would take care of him. He trusted them. They were doctors, just like him. Whatever had happened to hurt him, here he was safe. He relaxed and let unconsciousness take him again.

 

oOo

 

John was washed up into consciousness on pleasant waves of medication undulating in time to the clicks and beeps of medical machinery. His head was pounding and he felt vaguely sick. Oh god. He had a hangover. He remembered drinking way too much, but then he'd had cause. But that alone would not have put him into hospital. And an ICU to boot, if the amount of machines around him was an indication.

Without moving, he checked his body, tensing and relaxing his muscles, most of which informed him that they hurt, even through the comfortable haze of pain meds. Breathing was difficult, something seemed to constrict his ribcage. Had he been in an accident? Or a fight? He couldn't remember, but he knew that was alright. He must've hit his head or, and this seemed more likely, he had drunk enough to have a black-out. Either way, it was time to find out more. He carefully opened his eyes and looked up into a smiling face framed with black hair floating above him. He smiled back instinctively. “Hello”, he croaked.

“Hello yourself”, a pleasant female voice answered from somewhere to the side. “Good to see you're awake at last. Would you like some water?”

John tried to clear his throat, wondering where the black-haired person had gone. “Yes, please”, he whispered, and a blonde, softly curved nurse stepped into his field of vision, holding a cup and a straw which she gently directed into his mouth. He sucked in a few sips and swallowed gratefully. “Thank you”, he said when he was finished, already feeling a little better. The nurse put the cup away and returned with a pen light, holding his eyelids open and shining it into his eyes. “Concussion?” he asked in a murmur.

“Quite possibly, with your head injury. Does it hurt?”

“God, yes”, John groaned. “I thought I had a hangover.”

The nurse chuckled. “Well, you did have elevated blood alcohol levels when they brought you in, so I wouldn't discount that.”

She lowered the pen light and smiled at him. “Can you tell me your name?”

John recognised the beginning of the standard concussion tests. “John Hamish Watson”, he said, then grinned. “Doctor John Hamish Watson”, he said with a touch of pride.

“Oh, you're a doctor?” the nurse asked, her smile turning into a wicked grin. “Where did you study, then, Doctor John Hamish Watson?”

That was easy. “Bart's teaching hospital, London. Do you want the post code? And call me John, please.” He grinned too. His head might be pounding, but he was not above a little flirting.

“I don't think that's necessary, John.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, Nurse...”

“Stephanie. You're quite the charmer.” She was making a few notes on a clipboard. “Okay, John. Next, can you tell me the date?”

That was almost laughably easy. He would never forget this date. “June 16th, 2001. We got our exams results yesterday and went on a pub crawl to celebrate.” He chuckled, remembering Mike trying to chat up one of the girls in the dance club they had ended up at, while he, Kirsty and Jamal had been going crazy on the dance floor.

Stephanie was making another note on her clipboard, and John noticed that her smile seemed a little forced.

“John”, she said, still in a light and friendly tone, “can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?”

“Of course”, he said. “Tony Blair, he just got re-elected on Thursday. I sat my last exam that day.” He looked closely at Stephanie. “So, did I pass?”

“You did, John. You have lost a few days, but that's nothing to worry about, it's probably just a black-out from the alcohol and the head injury, and you did sleep for some time. A doctor will be around later to check on you, alright?” She smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps you want to sleep again? You've been through a lot.”

It was true, he did feel tired. He nodded once. “I'm not going anywhere”, he said vaguely as he closed his eyes. Whatever had happened last night after they left the club, he was sure he would remember soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late update; real life and a persistent cold made my brain too fuzzy to write. But you're getting a double chapter as compensation.  
> And a cliff hanger, of sorts. Because I am that evil. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock woke up to the sound of his mobile phone. He sat up and stretched, trying to get the crick out of his neck. It seemed that he wasn't used to sleeping on the sofa any more. He looked at the mobile – it was eight o'clock, he had slept disgustingly late and John hadn't come home last night. Sherlock was annoyed, but he supposed that it was to be expected. John would most likely indulge in breakfast with his date.

He had a text message from Lestrade. “Victim identified, soldier, wounded in action. Body's in Bart's morgue for you. Information to be released tomorrow.”

A connection between the victims, finally something resembling a lead. Sherlock hurriedly washed, dressed in fresh clothes and was out the door hailing a cab within ten minutes of waking up. Once in the cab towards Bart's, he sent a message to John's phone: “Bart's morgue. Meet me after breakfast.” Sherlock supposed that that would be sufficient, any further explanations would have to wait until John got there.

 

oOo

 

When John awoke for the second time to the beeps and clicks of medical machinery, he was acutely aware of every ache and pain of his body, and he knew that the painkillers he had been given had worn off. He wondered where the nice nurse – Stephanie, was it? - had gone, and if she would give him more when she returned. Through the throbbing of his head and the sharp pain of broken ribs, he fumbled for the call button and pressed it. He closed his eyes, feeling exhausted by that simple action. God, what was wrong with him? What had happened?

He looked up when he heard someone come in, and he instantly knew that the thin, grey-haired man was a fellow doctor. Good. He was finally going to get some answers.

“Hello”, the man said, pushing his spectacles up his nose before handing John a plastic cup of water which he gratefully accepted. “I am Doctor Carlton. Can you tell me your name?”

John took a few small sips of water and sighed. “Doctor John Watson”, he replied wearily. “I thought it was established that I don't have a concussion?”

“Yes”, Doctor Carlton nodded, “but as a medical professional, you know how these things work, Doctor Watson.” He smiled reassuringly. “Indulge me, please. What is the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

John closed his eyes, thinking. “The last thing I remember is that I was out drinking with my friends. A celebratory pub crawl. We had finished our exams. We left the Drunken Duck around... ten thirty I believe? Then went to the Fab for some dancing. Mike got sick and I helped him outside. That was probably somewhere around midnight. The next thing I remember is Nurse Stephanie giving me a drink.”

Doctor Carlton had taken the clipboard from the end of John's bed. “Do you know how you were injured?”

John considered carefully while emptying the cup of water. “I suppose I could have been in an accident of some sort”, he said, “but it feels more like I've been in a drunken bar fight...?” He looked to Doctor Carlton for confirmation, but saw only hesitation. “Doctor, please”, he said, handing the empty cup back to Carlton. “From one medical man to another. I would really like to have some answers.”

Doctor Carlton looked over John's chart again and sighed. “Alright, then. You were found on Barnsbury Road just outside the gates to Barnard Park, battered and bleeding, with no wallet, phone or other identifying object on you. You have three broken ribs, multiple bruises, cuts and lacerations consistent with being beaten and kicked, so we assume you were mugged and then assaulted. There was no internal bleeding and all your organs check out fine, so I guess you were lucky. You had quite a lot of alcohol in your bloodstream, so we do know you were out drinking. You have a head injury – someone kicked you in the head, from what it looks like – hence our worry that you had a traumatic brain injury, and we will continue to monitor. Although to be honest, it doesn't seem to me that you exhibit many symptoms of brain injury.”

While Carlton spoke, John became more and more confused. He was sure that Carlton's assessment of what had happened to him was right, he certainly felt bruised and battered enough. Something felt wrong, though, and John latched on to that. “Barnard Park, you said? Where is that?”

Carlton looked at him. “It's in Islington, somewhere between St Pancras and Angel stations. Why?”

John frowned. “That's on the other side of London from where we were. How did I get there from Waterloo?” Another thought occurred to him. “What about Mike, and Jamal and Kirsty? Were they mugged too?”

Carlton shook his head. “We don't know where your friends are, but as far as we can tell you are the only one who's in hospital.” He looked closely at John. “Now, I think you did enough for the moment. You have a lot of healing to do, Doctor Watson, and he sooner you start the better.” He filled the cup again and handed it to John with two pills. “That's something for the pain, and then I think you should get some more sleep.”

John fully agreed with his doctor's opinion, and he sighed in relief when the painkillers began to work. Carlton stuck John's chart back on the end of the bed and smiled at him. “Get some rest, Doctor Watson. We'll be back to check on you later. You're in good hands here.”

John nodded and gave a small smile. He was tired, it was true, and he closed his eyes even before Doctor Carlton left the room. John knew that it was not uncommon with traumatic brain injuries to lose the memory of the injury itself, and he was not overly worried about that. It was probably a blessing in disguise that he could not remember being mugged. But there were little things that didn't add up. He had not been alone that evening, but where were his friends? Why was he found outside a park miles away from where he had been? And what did the doctor mean, “many symptoms” - so there were _some_? The thoughts kept chasing through his head until he fell asleep.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was spending his time in the morgue examining the latest murder victim in minute detail. He had even rounded up Molly, who for some reason unknown to him appeared to be working Sundays.

“No, this isn't how I would typically handle a body to do a post mortem”, she was saying as she walked around the table on which the body was lying. “I don't have to be careful to put everything back together, see? I mean, whoever ends up here is already dead, so I, uh...” She trailed off, then rallied. “These are like the incisions a surgeon would make. John would know about that”, she added apologetically. Then, as if she had only just noticed, she asked, “Where is John today, by the way?”

“Enjoying Sunday with his date, I assume”, Sherlock answered absent-mindedly while carefully handling the victim's spleen, looking for anything that seemed like a clue. When Molly remained silent, he looked up at her questioningly.

“Oh, it's nothing”, Molly smiled nervously. “Only it's been hours that you've been here and your phone hasn't rung, and John usually texts you when he's not here with you, so I was wondering if everything was alright?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would things not be alright?”

Molly was saved from having to answer by the sound of Sherlock's phone announcing a text message. Sherlock put the spleen back into the victim's body cavity, annoyed that once again there had been no trace of anything new. He peeled off the surgical gloves he was wearing, reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his phone. Disappointingly, the text was not from John, but from Mycroft. Sherlock opened the text with a small sigh, but was stunned into stillness when he read it.

“John found in hospital. A car is waiting for you outside.”

 

oOo

 

John felt the warmth of sunshine on his face and he smiled, eyes closed. He was wonderfully comfortable and relaxed, and only when he started to sigh with contentment, his broken ribs made themselves known, and he remembered where he was. He chuckled ruefully. He had not planned to spend the first days of his break after finishing his studies back in a hospital, but Carlton had been right: It could have been much worse. John only hoped that he would heal well enough in time to get a few days off to spend with his parents before having to go back to start his residency.

Being careful about breathing too deeply wasn't the only thing his body demanded. The water he'd been drinking made a trip to the loo a good idea. At the same time, he could check on his bruises. John admitted that he was irrationally glad that his nose hadn't been broken, but he had after all been kicked in the head, and who knew what that had done to his handsome features. He chuckled again, trying his best not to giggle outright. He hurt too much for that, but not enough to call a nurse to help him into the facilities. It would be a cold day in hell if he couldn't manage on his own, even with a few cracked ribs. Grabbing the handrails on either side of his hospital bed, he carefully pulled himself upright with a groan, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing a little to breathe against the pain and the dizziness that came from having been horizontal for too long. He found that there were no shoes or slippers by his bedside. Never mind, he'd made it this far, he wouldn't be deterred by having to walk to the loo barefoot. Holding onto the handrails for support, he put his feet on the floor – cold, why was the floor so sodding cold! - shifted his weight, let go of his support and finally stood as upright as his ribs let him. He was relieved to find his sense of equilibrium intact. So far, so good.

A few cautious steps brought him to the bathroom. He used the toilet, then inspected his body.

Dear god, the doctor hadn't been kidding. John hadn't seen a collection of injuries like this since his days of playing Rugby. He ran his bruised hands tentatively over his ribcage, wincing at the renewed pain. There, two on the left side and one on the right. He had indeed been comprehensively beaten up, and he was once again glad that he couldn't remember the assault itself.

He turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water to get rid of the stickiness in his eyes, then he finally looked up into the mirror. There was a bandage on his head, presumably where he had been kicked, a black eye and a few already-healing scrapes, but that only registered briefly in his mind as he stared at his reflection. Wrong, it was all wrong, how was that his face? Crow's feet at his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead – wrinkles all over, and his skin looked … _craggy_. He looked _old_. He raised his hands to his face, touching his skin with disbelief. His heart was pounding, and though beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, he shivered as if cold. He felt dizzy and disoriented. This was impossible. What the _hell_ had they done to him?

 

oOo

 

Sherlock tried not to fret with impatience as the car Mycroft had provided made its way toward the University College Hospital. He suspected that he could have been faster walking. He used the time to fire off a text message to his brother.

“Found when / where / how? - SH”

Of course, Mycroft didn't reply with a text; instead, Sherlock's mobile rang with a call.

Sherlock launched into the conversation without preamble. “What happened?”

“John was found outside Barnard Park shortly after four o'clock this morning”, Mycroft's infuriatingly calm voice came through the phone. “It appears he was assaulted and mugged while on his way home from wherever he was last night.”

“At four o'clock?” interrupted Sherlock. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“He was mugged, Sherlock”, Mycroft repeated patiently. “His wallet and phone were taken, and the doctors had to wait for him to regain consciousness to establish his identity.”

Sherlock's mind was racing. John was a fighter and knew how to defend himself. That someone was able to harm him enough to render him unconscious and put him in hospital was unthinkable, yet it had happened. Had he been too distracted by Sherlock's message? When was he attacked? How many...

“Sherlock”, Mycroft said gently, hearing his brother's breathing speed up through the phone. “John is not severely injured, although he has three broken ribs and multiple lacerations. He will be alright.” He paused a moment, then added almost impressed, “From the police report, it seems that he managed to make his way out of the park where he was attacked to the street where he collapsed, even though he couldn't have been more than half conscious at the time and in severe pain.” Sherlock felt a glimmer of pride at this example of John's stubbornness.

“There is something else you should know”, Mycroft continued as the car arrived at the hospital.

“No time, Mycroft”, Sherlock said as he stepped out and hurried into the building. “I'm sure I'll find out whatever I need to know from his doctors.” He hung up and went in to ask for directions to John's room.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock was of the firm opinion that the lift taking him up to the ward John was in was probably the slowest in the whole of the United Kingdom. He was through the lift doors before they had completely opened, down a corridor and into a waiting area when he heard the commotion further down the ward. He started running when he recognised one of the voices as John's, who sounded pained and in distress.

“No! No! I want to get _out_ of here! Let me go! What the bloody hell has happened to me? No, don't _touch_ me!”

A softer, male voice was answering him, but John was having none of that. “Don't you fucking tell me to calm down! _Look_ at me! This isn't me!”

Sherlock heard someone call for Pentobarbital as he came close enough to push through the throng of nurses and patients who were gawking at the chaos surrounding John. He was dismayed by what he saw. John was clad only in a hospital gown which barely concealed his many wounds, and two nurses carefully but firmly held him by his arms. He looked panicked and furious as he struggled against their hold, shouting at the doctor in front of him, while another nurse was injecting something into John's upper arm, presumably the Pentobarbital. To Sherlock's surprise, John screamed at the feeling and increased his struggles, managing to tear himself loose from the nurses holding him, and running towards the gap in the surrounding people, straight towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stood his ground, catching John and holding him, hoping not to hurt him. “John”, he said, trying to calm him down, “it's alright, you're safe, no-one is going to hurt you.”

John frowned up at Sherlock, and Sherlock was appalled by the lack of recognition on his face. “John?” he queried softly as John started to stumble.

“Who... who the hell are you?” John muttered, and he fell forward into Sherlock's arms, unconscious once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear me, this one took a long time, and I'm sorry. I hope it was worth the wait.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock stood dumbfounded as the nurses plucked John from his arms, laid him on a stretcher and wheeled him away. John hadn't recognised him. John _always_ recognised him, even when he was on the verge of exhausted collapse or roused from sleep by a nightmare. It had become a constant in Sherlock's life, to always be known by John, and Sherlock was sure that even drugged with a sedative John would have realised who Sherlock was. But the shouts he had heard as he arrived indicated that John wasn't sure about himself, let alone his friend. 

Sherlock was dimly aware that someone spoke to him, and he came back to himself with a shudder. Looking up, he saw the older man who had been trying to calm John down. John's doctor, he realised, and with that realisation came a slew of information about the man in front of him - _doesn't need glasses but wears them to appear more serious, possibly to hide a deep insecurity, has recently quit smoking, nervous biting of nails, mismatched socks, bachelor, dressed in the dark so probably didn't want to wake someone –_ and then did his best to concentrate on what the man was saying, though he had missed half of it.

The doctor obviously realised that Sherlock hadn't heard him. “I said”, he repeated, “I'm Doctor Carlton. Do you know John Watson?”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “He is my friend. We have been sharing a flat for some time now. What is wrong with him?” 

Doctor Carlton looked around at the slowly dispersing crowd of nurses and patients. “We have been trying to reach Doctor Watson's next of kin, but - “

Sherlock interrupted him brusquely. “John's only next of kin is his alcoholic sister whom he had to bail out of jail on Friday and was hit by her for his troubles. You will find that John has a patient's provision naming me as his health care proxy. Now please, Doctor, tell me what is wrong with John.”

Carlton nodded. “Right. I think we should talk in my office, Mister...?”

“Holmes”, Sherlock answered. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Please, Mr Holmes, come with me.”

 

Sherlock followed Doctor Carlton, his mind still reeling from John's reaction, letting himself be led into a nearby office. He sat down, declining the offer of a drink, while Carlton put what Sherlock assumed to be John's medical file on to the table. Faced with Sherlock's impatience, Carlton dispensed with further pleasantries.

“From what we can tell”, he started, “Dr Watson had been drinking rather heavily and was walking through a park, presumably on his way home, when he was mugged and severely beaten. His wallet and phone were taken. He regained consciousness a few hours ago, which is when we were able to confirm his identity, and I expect he'll make a full recovery of his injuries.” Sherlock nodded. So far, Carlton hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. “But...”, he prompted.

“The most worrying is the head injury. We did a CT scan when he was brought in, and apart from a concussion and a slight swelling at the point of impact, which was to be expected, there were no other injuries or abnormalities in the brain scan. However, from what he's been telling us after he woke up, it appears that he has lost the memory of the last ten years of his life.” Carlton paused to let this sink in. 

Sherlock felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach. Ten years. Immediately he started calculating. Ten years meant John had forgotten his days in the Army, the deployment in Afghanistan – and his time in 221B. As glad as Sherlock was that John would be all right physically; if he didn't regain his memory, Sherlock would have lost him as surely as if he were dead. 

 

Something of Sherlock's distress must have shown on his face, because Carlton hurriedly continued, “This amnesia is quite probably temporary in nature. Like I said, Dr Watson's blood alcohol level was rather high. Combined with a concussion, this may have lead to short-term memory loss. He could wake up tomorrow with all his memories intact.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “He will regain his memories though?”

Carlton looked at Sherlock, then sighed. “We don't know. The brain is a fickle thing, Mr Holmes. We can assume, we can extrapolate from other, similar cases. But we don't know for certain if and when Dr Watson will remember the last ten years.” He looked down at his notes and shuffled them around distractedly. “Mr Holmes, I have to ask you. Has Dr Watson been under unusual stress lately?”

Sherlock considered. There was the case, someone John knew killed in a merciless and abhorrent manner. Harry, in jail and drunk, drunk enough to physically attack John (because although John had tried to hide it, Sherlock had seen the wine- and blood-stained clothing in the dirty laundry and noticed John touch his head and wincing). John's date must have gone horribly wrong for him to end the night drunk in a park instead. Each occurrence on its own was bad enough, but was it unusual stress to have all this happen so close together, and after a totally unnecessary fight with Sherlock, too? 

“He might have been”, Sherlock conceded eventually. “You suspect a fugue state?”

Carlton looked at Sherlock with surprise. 

“I'm a consulting detective and work with the Met”, Sherlock pre-empted any questions Carlton might have had, “it is my business to know any number of things.” He squashed down a feeling of irritation. How he had deduced what Carlton had been thinking wasn't important; his first priority was John.

“Yes, well”, Carlton recovered, “a fugue state is a possibility that we cannot discount as yet. You will know that a fugue state is aptly named. The mind is fleeing from itself, hiding away in a different persona or in the past, to a, er, system restore point, if you will. If this is a fugue state, he may not come out of it until whatever his mind perceives as hurtful is dealt with, until he is healed...“ Carlton hesitated.

“Or maybe never”, Sherlock finished for him. 

 Carlton pressed his lips together and sighed. “Or maybe never”, he agreed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for making you wait so long for an update. It seems my Muse was in hibernation, and it took a lot of coaxing (and Muse Treats left by a fellow writer) to get her to come out again to play.  
> I've already started on the next chapter, though, and I assure you that this WIP is most definitely not abandoned.


	10. Chapter 10

John felt wrapped in layers of cotton wool clouds as he pushed himself towards consciousness. “Drugged”, he though, confused. “I've been drugged...” He became aware of the soft beep of a heart monitor and the faint smell of antiseptics, and he groaned. He was really making a habit out of waking up in hospital. Why was he in a hospital, he wondered, why...

He slammed into full wakefulness from one second to the next and desperately tried to sit up, get up, get away, only to find that his wrists were wrapped in soft, padded cuffs which in turn were fastened to the bed. He tugged at them with increasing frustration, even though he knew that medical restraints were designed to be unbreakable. Fear and panic rose like bile in his throat, and he was dimly aware of the heart monitor speeding up and making distressed noises.

 

John shouted at the nurse who came in to check on him to make sure he wasn't having a heart attack. He shouted some more at her retreating back, then shouted and cursed when the doctor who had visited him earlier came into the room followed by a tall, black-haired man slightly older than himself. The black-haired man did not come into the room, but stood just inside the door close to the wall, watching John intently. Doctor Carlton studiously ignored John's outbursts, instead checking on the monitors and John's chart, until John had shouted himself hoarse and his wrists hurt from struggling against the cuffs. He flopped back onto the bed, defeated.

 

“Right, John”, Carlton said after he raised the bed so that John was in a sitting position. He poured some water into a paper cup and held it to John's lips. John swallowed greedily, then relaxed again. “Are you ready to listen now, or do you want to rant and rave some more?”

If looks could kill, Carlton would have needed a coffin. “You could always sedate me again”, John said bitterly. The man at the door snorted at that, and John looked across the room at him. He could see him much better now that he was sitting up, and he frowned. “Hey”, he said, “I know you.”

The man perked up, wide eyes shining with hope. “I fainted at you, didn't I”, John continued, and the hope was extinguished. Curious. “Sorry about that, but my doctor here thought I needed to be taken out. Going to do that again, Doc?” he said to Carlton.

“I would very much like to avoid that, John.” Carlton put down the paper cup and drew himself up, assuming a posture John knew very well – it was the pose of a doctor who was going to deliver bad news.

“Right, so, cut the crap, Doctor Carlton.” John let his continuing anger at being sedated and tied down show. “I've had a bang on the head. What did it do to me.”

Carlton was obviously still searching for the right words to explain what had happened to John when the man at the door spoke in a rough baritone voice. “What Doctor Carlton is trying and failing to tell you, John, is that you have amnesia. You have forgotten the last ten years of your life.”

John was stunned into silence. He looked to Doctor Carlton, catching the last of the annoyed look he gave the stranger. “Yes, John”, Carlton said, “ten years and a few months, from what we can tell.”

 

John felt ice trickling down his back and settling in his stomach. There was a cold fluttering under his shoulder blades and a buzzing noise in his head. The dizziness he had felt earlier was returning. His vision narrowed down to the detached face of his doctor. _Shock_ , he thought distractedly, _shock and panic_ , but most of his mind was running around in frantic circles. The injuries that he didn't remember getting, being found in a place he had no business of being, and the wrinkles on his face, it all made sense, he knew he was barely thirty and now he would be, what, forty? An old man? What had happened to him, what...

Suddenly there was a warm hand on his shoulder and a concerned face in front of his eyes. “Breathe, John”, the stranger instructed. “Breathe with me. Come on, focus. In, out, in, out...” The stranger put one hand on John's chest and breathed in a deep, regular rhythm until John followed his example. After a few minutes, John had calmed down enough to feel more like himself, whoever that may be, and slightly uncomfortable with a stranger's hands on his body.

 

As if he were reading his mind, the stranger stepped back from John and nodded. “Better now?” he asked.

“Yes”, John answered, “thank you. Nice technique, Doctor...”

John had assumed that the stranger was another Doctor, consulted by Carlton when his speciality was needed, but the stranger shook his head. “Just Mister, John. Sherlock Holmes. And you should be proud, you taught me that technique.”

 “I taught...” John frowned. This man, Sherlock Holmes, was an easier puzzle to solve than his missing memories, at least for the moment. “Who are you? I mean, who are you to me? I should obviously know you, but, well...”

 Sherlock nodded. “We are friends”, he said, “and flatmates. I am also, and Doctor Carlton will confirm this, your medical proxy.”

 “This means”, John said slowly, “that I must have trusted you implicitly. But why you, why not my parents, or Harry?”

 “I think that is enough information for the moment”, interrupted Doctor Carlton. “You have had a stressful day today, Doctor Watson, and still quite a lot of healing to do.”

 John frowned. “There is a lot I need to know, Doctor. After all, I've lost ten bloody years according to you.”

 “And you will, Doctor Watson. But right now, and with your consent – and that of your medical proxy, of course”, he nodded at Sherlock, “I would like to give you something to help you relax and sleep. Nothing drastic, we want you to heal, after all. ”

 

John thought about this. “Alright”, he conceded. “But what about these?” He smiled crookedly and gave the restraints a little shake. “They are rather uncomfortable, especially with the broken ribs, you know?”

Carlton hesitated. He obviously feared that if freed from the restraints, John would try to leave the hospital again. While he still debated with himself, Sherlock stepped towards a chair next to John's bed and sat down, arranging his long limbs as comfortably as possible on the hospital-issue plastic. “I will stay”, he announced, brooking no argument. “You may remove the restraints, Doctor Carlton, I can promise you that John will not leave this room without me.”

After a few moments' consideration, Carlton shrugged and went to unfasten the restraints. John rubbed his wrists and sat a little more upright in the bed. “Thank you”, he said, “I appreciate this.”

“Don't make me regret this, Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes.” Carlton went to leave. “I'll have a nurse come in with some food and your medication.” He looked at Sherlock. “Shall we talk later, Mister Holmes?”

“I don't think that will be necessary, Doctor Carlton. I'd rather stay with John, if you don't mind.”

“Of course”, Carlton said, and left.

 

Suddenly, John was alone with the stranger who called himself his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the Antidiogenes Club, without whom it would not be here now.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock settled back into the chair and looked down, giving John some time to adjust to his presence. He still felt annoyed at Carlton's inability to explain clearly what was going on. His friend would have wanted the information as quickly and succinctly as possible, but Sherlock hadn't anticipated the panicked reaction. He had to remind himself that this was not the John he knew, but a much younger, untempered version.  
He glanced over to the hospital bed where John Watson sat looking at his hands and did his best to be patient. Forcing John to remember would only result in disaster. 

John was inspecting his hands, trying to look past the scratches to the skin beneath. He never really looked at his hands, he mused, they were always sort of there, but he could remember the nick he'd gotten when a scalpel slipped from his grasp, the haematoma under the fingernail of his right thumb from where he'd caught it in the door to his room, the brownish-yellow nicotine stains between his left index and middle fingers from the cheap roll-ups he was smoking. None of these were there.  
Instead, the skin of his hands was more wrinkly than he was used to, the lines on his palms deeper, his fingertips rougher and a little calloused. Some of those callouses were in unexpected places, not from handling surgical implements. What had he been doing for the last ten years? 

His left hand started trembling slightly. God he wanted a cigarette. 

“I didn't know you had been a smoker.” The voice was soft, but it startled John nevertheless. “It's no wonder you've been hounding me to stop.”

John looked up at the man who was still keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Seems you don't know me as well as you think, Mr Holmes.” He had tried to keep his voice neutral, but it came out sounding more bitter than he'd hoped. 

The man raised his head and favoured John with a surprised look. “Sherlock, please”, he said, and John was amazed at how lost two words could sound. It made him wonder exactly what their relationship had been, or would become in ten years' time. Struggling with tenses made his head hurt more than it already did.

There were many questions he had for Sherlock, but didn't know how to start. He went for the easiest. “So, you're my medical proxy, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes”, he confirmed, “and your flatmate, and your friend. Just friend, don't worry. We've been sharing a flat for a year and a half now, and we work together.”

“Doing what?” John asked. “I know you're not a doctor, you said so yourself.”

Before Sherlock could answer, the door opened and Nurse Stephanie walked in, carrying a tray with what turned out to be the promised food and a small plastic cup containing two pills. “Hello, John”, she smiled. “Dinner, easy on the stomach, and an analgesic and Diazepam for desert.” She put the tray on John's bedside table. “Eat first, pills later”, she instructed. 

John raised his eyebrows. “Valium? You're giving me Valium?” 

Nurse Stephanie nodded. “Doctor Carlton prescribed it. It should lower your anxiety and make you sleep better, which will help with your recovery. You are in an unusual situation, John, and as a doctor yourself, wouldn't you give this to someone with high levels of anxiety who's already had a panic attack?” 

John was forced to agree, though he was annoyed at having the “you're a doctor so you should know”-card played on him. He didn't let his annoyance show, instead smiling at the nurse. “I am sure my medical proxy here”, he nodded towards Sherlock, “will make sure I'll be a good patient and take the pills.”

“That's the spirit, John”, Stephanie said. “Sleep well.” She nodded towards Sherlock. “Mr Holmes”, she said, “take care he swallows the pills.”

Sherlock nodded back. “Of course I will.” 

“Good”, she said and went out again. 

John pulled the tray of food towards him and inspected it critically. There was a plate containing an off-white puddle which might be either chicken in a white sauce or porridge, if porridge came accompanied with mushy vegetables. There was a plastic glass of brightly artificial orange juice and a little pot of artificial yellow custard. The whole thing looked bland and unappetizing. John took his cutlery – plastic, he noted, probably because of his earlier violent episode – and prodded the food. “Seems that hospital cuisine hasn't improved much in the last ten years”, he grumbled and took a bite of the off-white stuff. It was every bit as tasteless as he had feared. 

“A far cry from your usual fare, I agree”, Sherlock said. 

“What do I like, then?” John asked. “Since you know me so well, apparently.” 

“Chinese”, Sherlock replied without hesitation. “Cantonese, for preference. Indian, but not too hot. Italian, though you choose pasta dishes rather than pizza. For comfort food, fish pie, with a glass of ale.” John nodded and took another bite. It didn't taste of much, but he was hungry, and these were calories he needed to get well.  
“You don't have much of a sweet tooth”, Sherlock continued, “but will have a few biscuits with your tea. Splash of milk, no sugar. You can't abide dark chocolate. You don't drink much alcohol, probably because of your sister. And you don't smoke...” He trailed off when John looked at him with a slightly irritated frown. “My sister? Why wouldn't I drink because of Harry?”

To his credit, Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed. “One of the first things I knew about Harriet, and which you confirmed, is that she is an alcoholic. I'm sorry. She probably wasn't ten years ago, was she.”

“No, she isn't”, John replied angrily. “She does like a glass of wine with her dinner, but she's not what I would call an alcoholic.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “It must be a more recent development then, probably because...” He stopped himself in time. No use informing John of the more disturbing events of his life in the past ten years than he'd already inadvertently managed to do. John, however, would not let him off the hook that easily. “Because what?” he asked, then put another forkful of the chicken-and-vegetables into his mouth, seemingly unconcerned. “Does this have to do with you being my medical proxy, instead of her or my parents?”

“Eat your dinner”, Sherlock replied instead, “there's time for talk later.”

“I'll take that as a yes, then”, John said and picked up the glass of orange juice. “Oh this is vile”, he said after tasting it, “I'm not having that no matter how nutritious it might be. Could I have a glass of water, please?”

Sherlock stood up and went to pour some water from the pitcher by the bedside, then reached over to give it to John. Instead of taking it, however, John's hand shot out to grab Sherlock's wrist in a grip so firm it was almost bruising. “You say you are my friend,” he said in a low, hard voice. “I've lost ten years of my life – something I still don't believe, by the way – and I don't know what has happened to me or to the people I love, so I am calling on our friendship, Sherlock. If I ask you something, I expect an honest and thorough answer. No beating around the bush or leaving anything out because you think I can't handle it. Is. That. Clear.” 

Sherlock stood unmoving, his wrist held by John's hand, staring at the man in the hospital bed. He was careful not to show the deep joy he felt. John might have lost his memories, but he was clearly still John, even without having been in the army or in Afghanistan. This, if nothing else, convinced Sherlock that it was possible for John to come back, memories or no memories, because his personality was still intact. 

“Yes, John”, was all Sherlock said, and John nodded, satisfied, and released Sherlock's wrist to pluck the glass of water from his hand. “Good”, he said then picked up the two pills. “Now I'm going to take these, as ordered, and I'm going to sleep. I hope you'll be there when I wake up, because then you and I are going to have a nice long talk. Alright?”

“Yes, John”, Sherlock repeated, but didn't leave the bedside until John had swallowed the pills and drained the water. He took the glass and the tray of food from him, reclined the bed and helped John lie down in a comfortable position, then sat down on the chair again. 

“Sleep well, John”, he said then. “I'll be here.”

John nodded, closed his eyes, and let the pills do their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do profoundly apologise for the long lack of updates. Life happened and continued to happen, but all's well now, and I can once more devote more time to writing. Rest assured that this is far from abandoned; I have plans for John and Sherlock, and there is a murderer on the loose, after all!
> 
> If I may ask you, dear readers - would you prefer more frequent updates with much shorter chapters, or would you rather have the longer chapters I tend to write, but have longer time between updates?
> 
> And thank you for sticking around!


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock sat unmoving until John's breathing became deep and regular, then waited some more to make sure that John was really asleep and not just faking it. He wouldn't put it past the man he knew to pretend to sleep while waiting for his chance to escape. After a while, when it became clear to Sherlock that John had well and truly succumbed to the mixture of physical injuries, emotional exhaustion and Diazepam, he got up and went out of John's hospital room, locking the door quietly and leaning against it. He closed his eyes for a moment, realising that John wasn't the only one who was emotionally exhausted.

 

He frowned and opened his eyes. This was no time for sentiment, it was time to get assistance. He reached into his coat for his mobile phone, and had a brief moment of satisfaction when Mycroft answered after only one ring.

“Sherlock. I take it Doctor Watson has not improved?”

Sherlock squashed down the irrational desire to berate his brother for not telling him about John's memory loss before, since he was well aware Mycroft had been about to do just that when he had reached the hospital and interrupted their phone call. The knee-jerk reaction of fighting with his brother was time wasted which could be used to aid John's recovery.

 “No, he hasn't", Sherlock said instead. "John needs better help than he can get here. I want a neurologist, a psychologist, and a psychotherapist, all with prior experience with amnesia patients. I want the best, Mycroft, and I want them as soon as possible. I don't care what you have to do to make this happen, and I don't care what favours I will owe you, John needs to get his memories back.”

 “If you're quite finished, little brother”, Mycroft's slightly irritated voice issued from the phone, “I already took the liberty of having everything arranged. I am told that the doctors can be in London within the next 24 hours and will begin assessment and treatment as soon as John has recovered sufficiently from his injuries. I suppose you would like to have him transferred to the neuroscience department at St Bartholomew's hospital?”

 “Yes”, Sherlock replied, both annoyed and glad that Mycroft had anticipated his requests. “That would be preferable.” He swallowed before adding, “Thank you, Mycroft.”

 “Of course, Sherlock”, Mycroft said, his voice gone gentle again in a way that reminded Sherlock uncomfortably of his childhood. “John is your friend. He deserves nothing less. I will send you the doctors' curricula vitae shortly via email, I know you'll want to assure yourself about their qualifications.” Before Sherlock was forced to thank his brother once more, Mycroft terminated the call.

 

Sherlock was about to return the phone to his pocket when it rang again. He checked the caller ID, then answered it with a sigh of irritation. “Yes, Detective Inspector?”

 “Please tell me you have found something new, Sherlock.” Lestrade sounded tired and harried. “We're going to do a statement to the press tomorrow morning and I'd really like to tell them more than just that we have a serial killer on the loose who is targeting war veterans.”

 The case. In his worry about John, Sherlock had forgotten about the case. He rallied quickly. “The victims are the same age group, and have all recently returned from a war zone, where they have been injured. You will of course have checked if there is another connection between the victims apart from that, and which doctor or clinic they have visited while in London. Or even a therapist. We know that the murderer has medical knowledge and is most likely a trained surgeon. Check all medical records of the victims, if you have not already done so. Really, Lestrade, you don't need me to do this for you.”

 There was a short pause, and Sherlock imagined that Lestrade was relaying orders to his team, but then Lestrade said in a worried voice, “Sherlock? Is everything alright? You sound … distracted.”

 Sherlock found himself reluctant to tell Lestrade what had happened, but there was no logical reason not to. “I'm at University College Hospital. John is injured. He was mugged last night. He... seems to have a brain trauma.”

 There was the hiss of indrawn breath on the other end of the line. “Good God”, Lestrade said, “how bad is it? Is he in a coma?”

 “No”, Sherlock replied quickly, “he's awake and lucid, but there is some memory loss.”

 Sherlock could hear Lestrade swallow before he asked, “How much?” Sherlock couldn't reply immediately, as if telling Lestrade would make everything real, set in stone, and it wasn't, it couldn't be, John would regain his memories, there was no way... “Sherlock. Talk to me. How much of his memories did he lose?”

 Sherlock closed his eyes and forced himself to answer as calmly as he could. “Ten years, Lestrade. He's forgotten the last ten years.”

 

oOo

 

John was sitting in one of the wooden pews of St Bartholomew the Less, watching the sun shine through the stained-glass windows. He liked the quiet of the little church of St Bart's. When the stresses of his studies, of his life became too much, he would come here, sit for a while, calm down and get his mind in order. Some might call it meditating; it certainly wasn't praying, regardless of what the chaplain thought - but then, St Bart's the Less was open to all, a true hospital church.

 John's gaze was drawn, as it usually was, to the stained-glass window showing the Rod of Asclepius surrounded by a blue circle and stylised sun rays. It glowed in the late afternoon light, a promise and obligation at the same time. John chuckled softly at his fancy. He was almost finished with his studies, and he would be a doctor, and he promised himself he'd be a damn good one. He would make people better, as best he could.

 Overhead a helicopter flew through the skies of London. John heard someone come into the church and sit down next to him. He looked up at the face of the young man with short red hair and a riot of freckles on his face, and smiled a greeting. The man just looked at him sadly. "Why did you have to save me, John?" he asked in a soft voice.

John frowned at him in confusion. "What?" But the man didn't seem to hear him.

"It would have been fine, really. A bit painful, sure, but I felt ok, warm, around people I knew. Friends. Comrades. But you saved me. And then....the laughing man came."

 

 John became aware that the man was bleeding through his clothes, blood seeping through from cuts on his arms, legs and torso, dripping slowly onto the stone floor of the church. The faint helicopter sound became unbearably loud as a hail of gunfire blew the windows to little shards of glass that danced in the light of a sun far too bright for an English afternoon. Shocked and confused, John ran out of the church but instead of the familiar cobblestones of the thoroughfare of St Bart's he felt sand under his feet, and the weight of a helmet and backpack. Of course, he thought, Afghanistan.

The helicopter was still hovering overhead, and he could see soldiers running towards it, ducking now and again as another burst of gunfire sounded from within a ruined house. Evac. John looked around quickly, scanning the ground for any wounded he would not leave behind. “Watson!” someone shouted. “Get in the damned chopper, will you! There is nothing you can do! We need you at the hospital!”

 

John was working on automatic, hands swift but sure as he pulled bits of shrapnel out of a man's body, trying to stop the bleeding at the same time. He didn't wonder how he suddenly found himself in the field hospital. No time to worry, there was a patient on his operating table, and he could not let him die. He would not. Even when the man had stopped breathing and the heart monitor showed a straight line, even when they told him to stop, that it didn't matter any more, he continued to pluck the metal out, until the nurse – he had forgotten her name, how could he have forgotten her name when she looked at him with her beautiful brown eyes... She pulled him away from the table, told him that there were others still alive who needed his help, and he went and cared for them and tended their wounds, while his eyes were seeing the ones he could not save, all those he would not be able to save, all this waste, all this pain...

 … and then it was not a stranger on the bed reaching out but his father, pale and emaciated. John fell to his knees beside the hospital bed. “Why didn't you tell me!” he wailed at his father. “Why, dad? Why did you keep it a secret, why did you let me go when you knew I wouldn't see you again? Why didn't you let me help!”

 “There was nothing you could have done, Johnny”, the old man wheezed. “You were needed elsewhere.” He smiled. “You're a good son, but you're a better doctor. You were needed.” John reached out to touch his father, but his hands went right though him.

“Don't worry, Johnny”, his father said. “I'm alright now. Go, do your job. I'm proud of you.” He closed his eyes and sighed, then lay still.

 “No”, John shouted while tears streamed over his face, “no, no _no_ , not again, come back, don't... don't go...”

 

“He's dead, Johnny”, Harriet said behind him. “He died while you were away getting shot at. As usual, you were no help at all.” John turned around and saw that he was standing in Harry's flat. Harry was sitting on her white leather sofa, one arm around Clara and a wine bottle in her other hand. “It was the same when mum died, remember? No help at all.” She hiccuped. Clara looked at her with thinly veiled disgust, then peeled Harry's arm off of her and vanished.

 “She left me because of you”, Harry said.

 “No, Harry.” John looked pointedly at the wine bottle. “She left you because you're a drinker. You hurt her, just like you hurt me.”

 Harry's words were slurred. “I'd never hurt my baby brother!”

 “Not physically, no, but Harry, when you're drunk like this, you lash out and you hurt the people who love you. Who care for you.”

 “Aaah shut up Johnny”, Harry sneered, “What do you know of hurt!”

 

In that instant, John felt a kick in his shoulder, flinging him backwards into the dusty ground, gunshots zinging all around him, while someone shouted, “Watson!” He was being dragged out of the danger zone while pain flared in his body making him wish he could pass out, knowing that if he did he might not wake up again. He looked up into the brightness of the sun and saw in its centre a blue ring and an Aesculap staff, and he tried pointing this out to Murray as he was carried to shelter and laid down, ready for evacuation. John frowned at the laughter he heard; not his own, certainly, but somehow familiar nevertheless. Laughter that spoke of delight in pain, and of the knowledge of how to cause it and prolong it. John shivered, couldn't stop shivering, pulled himself to his feet and started running, away from the laughter and pain, from the death of his father, of his mother, away from hurting and hurtful Harriet, away from the war and the wounded. There were church bells in the distance and he turned towards the sound, running until he reached a tall, thorny hedge. He found a hole in the brambles and pushed himself through. On the other side was a cool, shady hollow, sheltered by an old wall to one side and a tree by the other. It felt safe there, a place where he could hide from everything that caused him pain. He curled up, breathing heavily. A warm, gentle, trusted voice spoke to him, called him by his name.

 

“John”, said the voice, “John, you're safe. You need to wake up now. John. Can you hear me? John, wake up.”

 John Watson opened his eyes and looked at the dark-haired, fair-eyed man standing over him, worry etched into his face, calling his name, and for a moment he almost thought he knew...

 … but knowledge hurt, knowledge was blood and pain and failure, and so John Watson fled, hiding in his safe place, while somewhere in his mind a man was laughing at the pain of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a rather good blog article about St Bartholomew's [here](http://londoninsight.wordpress.com/2011/03/04/st-bartholomews-hospital-church-smithfield-london/) which also touches on St Bart's the Less (good pictures too). The stained-glass window John is looking at can be seen [here](http://www.flickriver.com/photos/mynameismisty/sets/72157629120802951/).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG an update! (I know, right?) I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to this. I had some serious plotting issues but they seem to be resolved now (fingers crossed). I will not abandon this story, and I thank you for sticking with it. I appreciate you all.

Sherlock stood at the end of the hospital corridor, watching as John was wheeled away to another pointless MRI scan. He knew it was pointless, and he highly suspected Doctor Carlton knew it was pointless. There was nothing physically wrong with John's brain, although it would be a relief if there were. A physical defect could be treated and eventually healed. The psyche was far more difficult to mend, and there was nothing Sherlock could do except hope.

He stretched, trying to work the kinks out of his back. He had spent the night sitting at John's bedside in the terrible plastic hospital chair, watching John sleep, occasionally nodding off himself. He was awake when John started to exhibit all the signs of a nightmare, soft cries, minor yet abrupt movement of his limbs. He could still hear the despair in John's soft cries, the sobbed "no". Sherlock had relaxed when John seemed to have calmed down, but then his breathing and pulse rate had skyrocketed as if he were experiencing a panic attack, and Sherlock had done his best to rouse John from his sleep.

There had been a look of almost-recognition on John's face, but it was quickly replaced by an almost abject terror. John had blinked, and when he had opened his eyes again, there was nothing of the John Sherlock knew left in his eyes.

 

Sherlock was suddenly sick of the hospital. He needed to get out immediately. Waiting for an elevator would have taken too long, so he ran down the steps and through the lobby until he burst into the street. Coffee, that was what he needed right now, coffee and a cigarette. Or ten. He hurried down the street until he found an off-licence and a coffee shop, but he couldn't go far until he was drawn back to where he knew John was lying on some table being examined. He leaned his back against the side of the hospital building in the morning sun, lit the first cigarette, inhaled deeply, then alternated a drag on the cigarette with sips of hot, bitter coffee. He did not take notice of the people walking past or their looks. He would not care what they thought about him at the best of times, and this was hardly a good time.

 

Someone stopped and leaned on the wall next to him. "Those things will kill you", Lestrade said, the old quip spoken without its customary humour. Sherlock glanced over. Lestrade looked stressed and frustrated, frowning in the morning light. Ah yes, Sherlock thought, the press conference about the serial killer. Without speaking, Sherlock got out the slightly depleted pack of cigarettes and offered it to Lestrade, who took it with a slight nod. For a few minutes, the two men stood smoking silently.

"How did the press conference go?" Sherlock asked eventually.

Lestrade snorted. "They were having a field day. We were torn to pieces, and there will be a lot of sensationalist headlines tomorrow. Brave soldiers coming home from war, only to be killed in the middle of London." He sighed. "They're not half wrong, either."

Sherlock shifted his stance, feeling slightly embarrassed to have so completely forgotten about the case yesterday. "Any advances?" Inwardly Sherlock cringed at the apologetic tone of his voice. No, he was definitely not on top of his game.

Lestrade knew Sherlock well enough to hear the unspoken apology. "Sherlock, don't worry about it. We're working on it, following the leads you gave us. If and when you have a, a brain wave, give me a call, but you have more important things on your mind right now." Lestrade took one last drag from his cigarette, threw the butt down and ground it out with his foot. "How is John?"

Sherlock looked up at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings. "Physically he's well enough for someone who was beaten into unconsciousness", he said. "His body will heal. There doesn't even seem to be a concussion which is lucky, given that he was kicked in the head." He paused to discard the now empty coffee cup and light another cigarette. "There is no apparent brain damage, but they are scanning him again nevertheless. His doctor suspects a fugue state."

Lestrade winced at Sherlock's even, emotionless tone, knowing that it disguised the emotions that lay beneath. "John is a fighter, Sherlock", he said. "But he does this thing, right, of taking a break when he needs to." Sherlock could hear John's voice in his head saying, " _I'm going out, I need some air_ ", whenever there was a tense situation between them, and he nodded. "So maybe this is just his way of dealing with, you know, all this", Lestrade made a vague motion with his hands, "and he'll be back once he's calmed down."

 

All the frustration and unexamined sentiment Sherlock was feeling suddenly came to a head and, dropping the cigarette, he rounded on Lestrade, eyes blazing and voice full of barely suppressed anger. "This is not John stepping out for a quick jog around Regent's Park, Lestrade. John has for reasons unknown forgotten or suppressed _the last ten years of his life_. He does not remember me. He is not even the man I met. He does not remember having been to war, having been a soldier, that his parents died, that his sister is an alcoholic, nothing. Nothing, Lestrade! He is a completely different man, and the John Watson you and I know might as well be dead for all the good this... this _stranger_ is." Sherlock punched the wall next to Lestrade's head, but Lestrade did not so much as flinch. Instead, he took hold of Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"John is not dead, Sherlock. He is just... absent for a while."

Sherlock's anger evaporated and he hung his head. "That's the worst thing about it", he whispered. "I look at him and I see John who ... who is my _friend_ , and he looks at me and he does not recognise me, and I don't know what to do about it."

Good Lord, he's still so young, Lestrade thought as Sherlock practically leaned into his touch, eyes closed, in what for Sherlock amounted to a nervous break-down. "Sherlock", he said gently, "John is still there, somewhere, and he needs you. Don't you dare abandon him." He shook Sherlock's shoulder and tried to reach for the silver lining. "Be glad that whatever happened to him, John is not dead. I'd hate for him to become one of our cases."

Sherlock froze, then cocked his head and looked up at Lestrade, who raised his eyebrows in confusion at the sudden change in Sherlock. His eyes were bright, there was a grin spreading across his face, and for a second Lestrade feared the man was going to kiss him. Instead Sherlock took a step back and said in a dry voice that belied his grin, "Sometimes, Detective Inspector, you do display moments of intelligence."

"All right, thanks", Lestrade said, "care to tell me what you're on about?"

"A case, Lestrade, a case! That's how! If I can find out where John was and what he did in the last few days, maybe I can find the trigger that caused the fugue state and bring him back. Oh this is brilliant!" He turned, whipping out his phone and dialling in one swift movement. "Mycroft, I need you to trace John's phone for me." Lestrade watched as Sherlock started walking toward the hospital entrance with the restless energy of caffeine, nicotine and purpose. "Oh please don't pretend you haven't put tracking devices into our phones, I know you have. Text me when you know where it is. Oh and Mycroft..." 

Sherlock's voice was swallowed by the hospital doors. Smiling to himself at the crisis averted, Lestrade pushed himself away from the wall and went on his way back to Scotland Yard.


	14. Chapter 14

John was lying with his head in a magnet, the deafening whistles, thrums and knocks of the MRI scanner in his ears. The sleek machine with LED lights and soft buttons was a far cry from the sort of thing he was used to, but he supposed that if the story Carlton and Holmes had told him was true, it would tally with a ten-year advance in medical engineering. He wondered idly as the machine was taking pictures whether the next thing they'd say is that a cure for the common cold had been found.

The sounds of the MRI were still pretty damn loud though, and the need to lie still for the amount of time it took to get an image of his brain made him itch. John still didn't know what had happened to his parents and Harry, his friends, and come to think of it, himself. When he had been to the toilet earlier and taken another good look at his body, he had seen a bullet wound on his left shoulder. A contorted look into the mirror confirmed that it had been a through-and-through, some years ago, possibly with an infection. Where the hell had he been, and what had been doing, to get shot? He hadn't planned much further than his residency, and then possibly an employment as a surgeon; there were a few very interesting new developments in laparoscopic surgery ... but that was ten years ago, who knew if that was already standard procedure? Would he still be needed as a doctor, with medical knowledge ten years out of date? And why couldn't he remember?

John was glad when the MRI was powered down, interrupting his thoughts, and the board he was lying on started to slide out of the torus. A nurse rushed to help him back into the wheelchair when he struggled to stand. John resented her, and the wheelchair, and the whole hospital, but he made himself smile and sit down in the hated contraption so the nurse could wheel him back into his room and, presumably, put him back to bed.

He was barely back in his room when another point of resentment blasted through the door in the shape of Sherlock Holmes. John frowned. What a ridiculous kind of a name was that anyway? The man's hair was dishevelled, he was grinning wildly, his poncy greatcoat flapping as he moved. He stank of cigarettes, and John's hands twitched with the need to get one himself.

 

"Ah, John, you're back!", Sherlock shouted as he pounced on John who was leaning heavily on the bed caught between pain, exhaustion and exasperation.

"Of course I'm bloody back", John shouted in return. "Where the bloody hell do you think I could go in this get-up?" He spread his arms. "Kind of draughty for street wear, this hospital gown, isn't it? I don't even have my bloody shoes!" He deflated, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry." He sat down heavily on the bed.

Sherlock had stopped in his tracks. "John?" he said softly, in a tone John didn't recognise.

"That's my name", he said wearily. "Don't wear it out."

When nothing more was forthcoming, John looked up and was surprised to see Holmes standing thunderstruck, reaching out one trembling hand to him. He sighed.

“I’m sorry”, he apologised again. “I have a bit of a temper, always have. I didn’t mean to shout at you, Mr Hol… Sorry. Sherlock.”

Sherlock let his hand drop and laughed once, humourlessly. “Yes, you do. I know.”

John grimaced. "I'd have thought I might have mellowed with age." He was glad to see that Sherlock smiled at this for a split second. "No", Sherlock said, "of all the words I would use to describe you, 'mellow' is not one."

"How would you describe me, then?" John asked, genuinely interested.

Sherlock didn't have to think long. "Resourceful", he said, "loyal, kind, brave. You're a fighter, but you'll put the safety of others first. A very good doctor, too. A good friend."

John felt himself blushing and cleared his throat. "What, no bad sides? Doesn't sound like me at all."

Sherlock shrugged. "You insist on watching silly science-fiction and James Bond movies. You can be grumpy in the mornings before you've had your first tea. Your bedside manner could use a little work... And you have a bit of a temper."

John chuckled, and Sherlock smiled again, if a little wistfully.

 

Both of them sobered up immediately when the door opened to admit Dr Carlton, who was carrying a folder. "Your latest MRI results", he said. John looked at him apprehensively.

Carlton sighed. "You can have a look at the images yourself if you'd like, but the short story is, your brain checks out fine. There are no signs of inflammation, swelling, or blood clots, no dark areas or tumours. You've got a very healthy brain, Doctor Watson."

John frowned. "So what you're saying is... The reason I can't remember... that's nothing to do with any brain injury."

Carlton shook his head. "Exactly. Whatever is keeping you from remembering, it's not physical."

"Oh great", John sighed. "I'm a nutcase."

"Now, Doctor Watson", Carlton chided him, "that's hardly a way to describe your condition. However, sad as I am to say this, there is nothing I can do for you. If you had a neurological disorder, we would be able to treat it, but this would be a job for a psychologist."

"So there is no further reason to keep John here", Sherlock butted in. John looked at him gratefully. "Yes", he said, "he's right. I don't need to be in hospital for cuts and bruises, and broken ribs will heal by themselves. As a fully qualified doctor, I can care for the injuries myself. Minimal discharge, Doctor?"

Carlton nodded. "We can discharge you as soon as you want, into the care of Mr Holmes, your medical proxy - as soon as you are dressed, in fact. We kept the clothes you came in with of course, but I'm told they are somewhat dirty."

"That's all right", John said quickly. "No offense, Doctor Carlton, but the sooner I'm out of here the better."

Sherlock went to stand next to John, feeling relieved. Whatever else would happen now, at least they'd be out of the hospital with their bustling nurses and annoyingly unhelpful doctors, and could start working on getting John's memories back.

"I agree", he said. "Get dressed, John. I'm going to call us a cab and take you home."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, right?
> 
> Short story, not abandoned. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to random_nexus, who kept poking me until I wrote it. 
> 
> And to everyone who's still subscribed. Thank you.

Of course, it turned out to be far easier said than done, as there was a lot of paperwork to be gone through first to get John discharged. Once he had signed all the necessary forms, glad that he could at least remember his name, John was left alone in his room. He stripped off the hospital gown, crumpled it into a ball and threw it onto the bed, glad to be rid of it. Now naked, he upended the bag containing what were supposedly his clothes and stood looking at them, feeling for all the world like he'd been given a random Oxfam bag. He eyed the underpants suspiciously and decided against them. It wouldn't be the first time he went commando, and putting on what seemed like another man's worn pants just seemed wrong.

He pulled on the jeans and, discarding the socks, slipped his feet into unknown yet comfortable shoes. The chequered button-down shirt and slate grey jumper went on likewise, while John wondered when his dress sense had become his dad's.  
  
And where was his dad anyway, and his mum. Sherlock had until now skilfully avoided answering John's questions in that regard, which was not reassuring at all. John frowned. There was something wrong about this, and he'd have to make sure to find out as soon as they got home. Wherever home was.

The final item in the hospital bag was a black jacket with what looked like leather shoulder patches. He held it up and turned it around, and found that the back was not only dirty with ground-in blood and dirt, but that it also had a long tear on one side. Beyond saving, he decided, and realised that his old self would probably feel gutted to lose such an obviously well-worn jacket, but he stuffed it back into the plastic bag together with the socks and pants and dropped them into the bin in the corner.

Just as he was doing this, Sherlock entered the room. “Your jacket”, he breathed, and John looked up in time to catch the annoyed look on his face.

“Torn, I'm afraid”, John said, “Sorry, but the jacket's had it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well”, he said, took off his coat and held it out to John. “Here, use mine. It's cold outside.”

John looked at him curiously but accepted the coat. “You do realise it's rather large for me?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It'll keep you warm. We won't be walking a lot, don't worry about your appearance. Come on, taxi's waiting.”

 

As he put his seatbelt on, John was strangely relieved that a black cab was still a black cab, the interior a little scuffed and with the slight aroma of old shoes and curry. As the cab took off, John looked out of the window, frowning. Glad as he was to be leaving the hospital, he now realised that it had at least been an environment he was familiar with, ten years of advances in medicine notwithstanding. The look out of the cab window however hammered home what he had been trying to forget: He was a man out of his time. He could not feel the ten years he'd lost, instead, it was as if he had fallen asleep in one London and woken up in another. He couldn't quite put his finger on why what he saw disconcerted him, but the more he looked, the more the usual visual background noise of the city became unfamiliar to him.  
  
At first, it was the style of clothes that was different. Then makes of cars he didn't know, ads on buses for shows he'd never heard of, and what the hell was Wonga? He tore his gaze away and looked down at his hands, but even that could not ground him, old as they looked. He had the sudden urge to get out of the cab and run, run until he found something, someone... But where, and what? He closed his eyes and slumped down into the too-big coat, breathing deeply to settle his nerves.  
  
Unexpectedly, the scents he breathed in from the coat – warm wool, stale cigarette smoke, with a hint of an after-shave he couldn't place – helped to make him calm down and feel more secure. He knew of course that the sense of smell was most connected to emotions and memories, and this more than anything Sherlock had said convinced him that they were indeed good friends. He sighed.

Sherlock had been surreptitiously watching John in the reflection of the cab window. He knew John well enough to observe the increasing signs of anxiety in his friend. When John burrowed into his coat and sighed, Sherlock stopped pretending not to notice.  
“People are not really aware of things changing”, he said in a quiet, rumbling voice, still looking out of the window. “I can't imagine how this must feel to you.” He hesitated. “If there is anything I can do...”  
  
John huffed a laugh. “I might want to borrow your coat again”, he said, “I like the way it smells...”  
  
Surprised, Sherlock looked at him directly. “How it smells?” he asked, eyebrow raised.  
  
“Yeah”, John said. In for a penny.... “It smells... familiar. Safe.” He blushed. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... Here, have it back.” He started to take off the coat, but a hand on his arm stopped him. “No”, Sherlock said, “It's fine. You need all the safety you can get right now. But you're right, the coat's too large for you to wear comfortably. You can have my scarf next time we go out.”

 

Before John could think of a reply, the cab slowed to a halt. John got out and looked at the building in front of him while Sherlock paid the cabbie, then joined him on the pavement.

“Prime location”, John remarked. “Must be expensive.”

With a pang, Sherlock was reminded of their first meeting at Baker Street, but he shoved the sentiment aside. John didn't need Sherlock's emotional baggage right now. Sherlock could have a little break-down once John was back to his old self. Instead, he decided to follow the script.

“The rent's affordable for the two of us. Mrs Hudson, the landlady owes me a favour...” He trailed off as he realised that Mrs Hudson was not aware of John's current mental state. Maybe seeing her would jolt some of John's memories, but he suspected the moment would only result in embarrassment.

In either case, it was too late to change tactics now. The door opened and Mrs Hudson beamed out at them. “John!” she exclaimed. “Sherlock said you'd been injured, poor man, are you all right? What happened?”

John had retreated slightly under the onslaught of motherly worry, but he rallied and plastered a smile onto his face which Sherlock knew was fake. “Yes, I've been in a bit of a brawl”, John said, “but I'll be fine. Sherlock will help me, right Sherlock?”

Sherlock took his cue. “Of course. Don't worry, Mrs Hudson. John just needs some painkillers and a bit of a nap. Come on, John, you need to sit down.” He steered John towards the stairs and up to the first floor while Mrs Hudson was still fussing, wondering what John would say to the flat.

He didn't have to wait long. “This is... unusual”, John said as he turned around slowly in the living room. “We live here? In this...” He was at a loss for words. It wasn't a mess precisely, but he seemed to have stepped into an eclectic antiques shop of sorts. He recognised medical texts on one of the bookshelves and supposed they were his – but what was with the bison's head on the wall wearing headphones of all things, and the weird mix of items on the shelves and mantle piece? One thing caught his eye.

“That's a real human skull. Is that mine?”

Sherlock grinned briefly. “No”, he replied, “it's mine. An old friend.”

John raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. “Tell me later”, he said. “I need a shower and some clean clothes.”

“Of course”, Sherlock said, but John made no move to leave. Instead, he cleared his throat nervously, then said, sheepishly, “Um. I can probably figure out where the bathroom is, but... “

“Ah yes”, Sherlock realised why John had hesitated. “Your room is upstairs. Bathroom's down here, down the hall to the left. I'll get the kettle on in the meantime.”

“Good, good”, John muttered and went to make his way upstairs.

 

If he had thought it weird to step into an unknown flat he was supposedly living in, it was nothing compared to going into his – old-John's – room.

The first thing that struck him was how neat it was. He usually didn't have much time to clean his room, or what he currently thought of as his room, in the flat he shared with Mike, Kirsty and Jamal, between studies and his job as barista at the nearest Caffe Nero. Things just seemed to accumulate around him. Empty cups and overflowing ashtrays, which sometimes were the same things. Clothes haphazardly thrown over a chair in the corner, bed hastily made if at all.  
  
This room however spoke of neatness and order, spartan but lived-in, but with very few knick-knacks. At least that aspect hadn't changed. John opened one of the wardrobes to find carefully hung shirts and trousers, folded sweaters, a drawer of rolled up socks, another of ironed and folded underwear. He chose some clothes randomly and threw them on the bed.  
  
Curious of who this other John was, he started opening the bedside drawers. A stack of notebooks drew his eye. A diary, perhaps? He opened one, filled with handwriting he knew well, even if the writing made no sense to him. A Chinese trapeze artist shooting people? A smuggling ring of antiquities? And who was Sarah? Had he become a fiction writer in the intervening years?

With a frustrated huff, he tossed the notebook back into the drawer, closed it and opened the next. He froze.

Seconds later, he was standing in the kitchen where Sherlock was busy making tea.

“Sherlock Holmes”, John said in a flat voice, “why is there a gun in my bedside drawer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more chapters; don't ask me when.
> 
> If in doubt, ask random_nexus to poke me again. ;)


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